


Vévé

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcoholism, Established Relationship, Ghosts, Historic Slavery, Historic Violence, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Modern AU, NaNoWriMo, Undead, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 61,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3079712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos has a gift. Both clairaudient and clairvoyant, he's working as part of a university research team who are investigating para-psychological phenomena. With just one more site left to visit, he's looking forward to going home, but the plantation house at Thibodaux proves to have a darker past than anyone was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, after many attempts, I finished a NaNo novel. I hated every second of doing it. I made every excuse _not_ to sit down and write. I changed my idea on day one and I swear, on all that is chocolate and Athos, that I will never do NaNoWriMo again. :)

There were thirteen children here in the cellar with them, a baker's dozen or, in this case, a butcher's dozen, and not one of them was more than ten years old. Thirteen dead children crowding around Porthos, clamouring for his attention, their voices unheard for so many years.

"I'll tell your story," he said, rough with emotion. "I promise I will. I know what happened to you." How much longer could he keep doing this, he wondered as he sank to the floor, head resting against his knees. He wished there was something more he could do for these tiny souls who'd been butchered for no other reason than the sick bastard, who'd committed these crimes, had a gruesome pastime. He liked to preserve and display them as art in his very own secret chamber of horrors. "Have they gone, Athos?" he said as he felt the comfort of an arm descend around his shoulders. He couldn't bear to look at those little faces any longer.

"I have no idea," said Athos. "I’d assume so, but only because no one's trying to barge me out of the way so they can talk to you."

"Tell them anyway," said Porthos, words muffled by the crook of his elbow.

"You can cross now," said Athos, gently but firmly. "It's over."

Porthos looked up to see the last wisp disappear. "You'd make a great army officer. They always listen to you, despite the fact you're a big old softie," he said.

"I'm never soft," smirked Athos.

"Don't I know it." Porthos leaned in sideways for a kiss that was sweet and familiar, but packed so full of potential that he couldn't wait for bedtime.

"The cameras _are_ still rolling, you know" said Aramis, coming over to sit next to them, passing cans of Mountain Dew along the line.

"Don't care," growled Porthos. "It's not as if we're on TV." He kissed Athos once more, and then made do with budging up as tight as possible for some close contact. It was as necessary to him as water after a day like today. "Did you get any decent readings this time?"

D'Artagnan came over to join the group, opening a ring pull and hunkering down next to them. "Not a single one, I'm afraid. None of the new equipment has made any difference at all." He sighed, full of feeling, and his chin dropped despondently onto his chest. 

The young man had put his heart and soul into this, it was his research project they'd been hired to work on, and Porthos was beginning to feel a huge weight dragging him down from their ever growing list of failures. “I’m sorry.” 

"It's not your fault, Porthos," said d'Artagnan, trying to buck him up. "Aramis and I are the ones who are supposed to be recording the evidence. You keep doing what you're doing, and we're bound to get something eventually."

"At least we have miles of footage of Athos getting pushed around," laughed Aramis.

"Hilarious." Athos quirked an eyebrow. "The next time I fall down the stairs, I'll make sure I land on you."

Aramis sniggered. "And there was I thinking you'd land on Porthos' cock."

"I'll do that _after_ you cushion my fall," said Athos. "I wouldn't want to damage anything vital."

Athos was the strange case of a desensitised sensitive. Neither clairvoyant or clairaudient, he had a broken receiver, and the only contact he ever received was from being shoved about by frustrated ghosts. It was a constant source of amusement to the team, especially Porthos who could see the whole picture, plus the look of affrontery on Athos' face as he picked himself up off the ground.

"Have you done all you need to do here?" said d'Artagnan, tidying away the equipment.

Porthos nodded, trying not to think about how many body parts were buried beneath them. "All the kids have passed over. I'll write it up as usual for the records." 

He wished he could do more, but it would be impossible to investigate each case thoroughly enough to provide the kind of evidence the police would need to consider the crimes solved. These particular murders happened over a hundred years ago. The butcher, Adamson, was a pillar of the community, his descendants were still living here in Evansville, and small town America was notoriously proud of its heritage. 

The US was a brilliant place to visit, but six months had proved to be long enough for Porthos. He was tired. He wanted to go back to the little terraced house in Warwick that he and Athos had made their home. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and fuck, and then fuck some more. It was a haven within those walls: safe and warm and full of nothing but love. "We are booked on the next flight to Heathrow," he added in an undertone.

"We’ve just got one more site to investigate," said Constance from the shadows. "And then I promise we're done for now." As well as being an expert technician, Constance was also their organiser. Without her, they wouldn't have a clue where to go or what to do, and would probably still be milling aimlessly around the research labs in Warwick, like a haphazard bunch of zombies. “It’s a good ’un, I swear,” she added.

The idea of another road trip, however _good_ it might turn out to be, filled Porthos with misery and, chilled to the bone, he pressed ever closer to Athos. He couldn’t stand the thought of more irrefutable evidence of yet more violent death. If, just for a minute, the others could see the world through his eyes, they’d never ask him to do this again.

“For God’s sake, Constance, you said that when we came here to Evansville,” snapped Athos. “He’s had enough. You can all _see_ that he’s had enough and, quite frankly, so have I. You have no idea how exhausting this is for him.”

“And you do?” said Aramis, with a pointed look.

Athos glared at him. “I know how tiring the residual effects are for me, so, yes, I can imagine how drained Porthos must feel. I only wish all _he_ had to do was fail to record any evidence whatsoever.”

“It’s okay. I can manage one more place,” said Porthos, wanting to bring an end to the argument before it grew any more heated. Athos and Aramis were old friends, but they had a bad habit of winding each other up to the limit. He pulled his own personal guard dog into his arms to ease off some of the tension in the man, rubbing slow strokes up and down his back. “Then we go straight home.”

After packing up the equipment in the RV, they thanked the owners of the old butcher’s shop, which was now a family home, and drove to their favourite diner in Evansville. It was jaded and tired looking, suiting them perfectly, plus they served the best burgers Porthos had ever eaten in his life.

“You’re never going to finish that,” laughed Athos when the food arrived and Porthos began to tuck into his triple stack, piled to the ceiling with swiss cheese, pastrami and pickles.

“Just watch me,” said Porthos, looking down at his sandwich with love written all over his face. “I need refuelling after today. Talking to spirits is hungry work.”

“If people knew what had happened in their homes,” muttered Athos, and Porthos noticed that his hand was shaking badly as he downed his beer in one.

“When I buy a place, I’ll make bloody sure you check it over for me first,” said Constance, and she looked inquisitively across the table at Porthos. “I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this, but when did your abilities manifest. I know a lot of psychics aren't born with them.”

Porthos could feel Athos and Aramis, who were sitting either side of him, huddle in protectively, and he drew strength from their support. “I had an accident when I was a teenager," he said in between mouthfuls. "Nothing too impressive. A bunch of us were mucking around in the summer holidays, jumping off a bridge into the canal. I hit my head and went under.”

“Is that where your scar comes from?” asked Constance.

“Yeah,” said Porthos. He could still feel the whiplash of submerged steel cable bite into his face and then that horrifying onset of darkness. “After that it was the classic white light and tunnel syndrome,” he said, playing it down. He often tried to remember more, reliving it over and over again in his dreams, peering through that tunnel and desperately trying to see what lay beyond. “I came round in the hospital and Mum was sobbing her heart out. My grandad was furious with me for being an idiot, but he hugged me so hard. He’d never hugged me like that before. Anyway, when I sat up there was someone else standing by the bed. An old bloke who looked at me with all this relief on his face and I thought I must know him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place him. When he vanished, I thought it was the drugs that were making me see things. I never tied it in to the commotion going on at the other end of the ward until much later on.”

“Wow,” said Constance. “So the near death experience set up some sort of psychic connection with the spirit world. That’s amazing.”

“More of an actual death rather than a near death experience, wouldn't you say?” Athos raised an eyebrow. “We’re all this close to death every minute of every day.” He raised his hand, index finger and thumb pressed close together.

D’Artagnan frowned at him. “What about you, Athos? What jump started you?”

It was said in such a ruthlessly dismissive way that Porthos _hurt_ and, squeezing Athos' hand under the table, he glared fiercely at d'Artagnan, willing him not to make trouble.

The kid hadn’t wanted to hire Athos as part of his research group, but Porthos was insistent. It had nothing to do with their relationship; he simply couldn’t do this without Athos by his side to keep him grounded. Together, with Aramis, they were a team, so much so that they were nicknamed the Inseparables by the other members of the faculty.

Athos shrugged. “I’m hardly qualified to answer. The only spirits I have contact with come in a bottle.”

Aramis laughed, reaching across Porthos to slap Athos on the back. “You’re not wrong there, my friend. Now can we please get on and eat, because it’s late and we have a long drive to Louisiana tomorrow.”

Porthos shuddered as if someone had walked over his grave. It was supposed to be beautiful down in the bayous, but the combination of plantations and too much water made his skin crawl. He hoped they’d be somewhere far inland, preferably on the top of a mountain.

“You don’t have to do this,” said Athos in an undertone.

“I promised them I would,” he replied. “Once more place and then home.” Athos looked worried and Porthos chucked him under the chin with a crooked finger and then kissed the mustard off his lips. “Don’t panic. I’ll be fine.”

~*~

Back at the hotel, Porthos fell forwards from standing, stretching the full reach of his six foot four frame across the diagonal of the bed. He was totally chilled out from food, beer and a long soak in the bath. The room was the perfect temperature, and he’d be happy enough to close his eyes and fall asleep right now, if it wasn’t for the niggling feeling that going to Louisiana would turn out to be a terrible mistake for all of them and, in his line of work, he’d be stupid to write off gut instincts.

“It’s understandable,” said Athos, straddling him and beginning a slow massage with oiled hands all the way up his spine.

“What is?” murmured Porthos, groaning with relief as his muscles began to unknot.

“It’s not going to be at all pleasant visiting the slave plantations with your heritage and your sight,” said Athos matter-of-factly. He was never a one to skirt over awkward details, which was one of the many reasons Porthos loved him so much. “There's going to be a lot for you to deal with there. It’s never too late to say no.”

Strangely enough, Porthos hadn’t given much thought to the whys and wherefores of his attack of nerves, and had been more aware of a general sense of dread creeping on him. Of course, he’d heard the true life horror stories of slavery, but he’d never considered what it would be like having to investigate one of these places. “Do you know for a fact it’s a plantation house we’re going to?”

“Yes,” said Athos. “I asked d’Artagnan when we were in the diner and you’d gone for a piss.”

Porthos thought about it. He’d seen death and destruction. He’d spoken to raped and tortured women. He’d heard the tales of mutilated children. He saw these things every single day, every single place he went, and, if anything, it made him more determined to go through with this visit. These slaves deserved a chance to tell their stories as much as any other victim. More perhaps, because generations of them had suffered entire lifetimes of abuse. “I want to do this," he said. "It's important.”

“So we'll go to Louisiana,” said Athos, his thumbs digging deep into Porthos’ shoulders. “But with a strict proviso that if either of us are unhappy then we leave straight away.”

“At least it’ll be a nice journey down there,” said Porthos, doing his best to search for the positives. “We’ll take the bike.” He groaned in relief as those fingers worked their magic.

“Who gets to ride?” said Athos.

“I do,” said Porthos gruffly. There was nothing he loved more than to race along open expanses of road with Athos’ arms clamped around his waist. It was the only time he was ever free of his fucking 'gift'.

“You want me on your bitch seat?” 

That voice was laden with sex, and there were so many filthy connotations to the sentence that Porthos went from semi to fully hard in the blink of an eye.

“Fuck yes,” he said, twisting around from front to back until he was looking up at Athos, never quite sure how they'd made the jump from best friends to lovers, but thanking his lucky stars that they did. “You can ride my bitch seat now, if you like.”

Running oily fingers up and down the length of Porthos’ cock, Athos leaned down to kiss him, and the taste of mint toothpaste didn’t quite hide the sweet taint of bourbon. 

“ _Athos_ ,” said Porthos, pushing him away and looking up at him in concern.

“I had _one_ Jack Daniels from the minibar and a beer with dinner. Surely you don’t begrudge me that?” said Athos with a smirk and as he sank downwards and squeezed tight, Porthos was enveloped in heat and smothered in so much love he couldn’t care less about spirits of any kind. This was all that mattered.

“You know I can't begrudge you anything,” he said, reeling Athos in for more kisses, then reaching between them to play with his cock.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, what’s the plan for today?” asked Porthos as he finished off a second cup and signalled the waitress, Della, to pour him one more for the road. Free refills of the best coffee in the world were a reason they should seriously think about moving to Evansville. Not to mention the incredible waffles and syrup.

“It’ll take us about twelve hours to get to Thibodaux,” said Constance. “We can do that in a day if we get our skates on.”

Aramis raised his eyebrows at her in disbelief.

“Athos and I are getting our motorcycle on, rather than our skates,” grinned Porthos, looking around in surprise when the others began to grumble out a chorus of discontent.

“Oh, please God no," said Aramis, taking his crucifix out from under his t-shirt and kissing the image of Christ. "We never know where you are, or when you’re going to turn up,” he continued. “You disappear off into the desert. You get distracted by signposts to wacky American adventure parks and sights. You two and that bike are a damn nuisance.”

“Tough,” said Athos with a smug look on his face. He was never happier than when he was pissing Aramis off.

“What Porthos wants, Porthos gets,” snorted Aramis. “You need to grow a pair, M le Comte, or soon I'll have to start calling you Mme la Comtesse.”

“Sod off,” said Athos amiably. “I’m the boss in this relationship, I’ll have you know.” He laughed when Porthos kicked him under the table.

“So you say, but are you going to be doing the riding?” asked Aramis.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” said Athos with an amused quirk of the eyebrow.

That voice was so impossibly cultured yet, at the same time, as lewd as a Soho backstreet, and it was then Porthos discovered, to his embarrassment, that he couldn't take his eyes off Athos, focusing solely on his lover: locked, loaded and barely able to speak. He needed to undo this spell right now. “So, d'Artagnan, tell us about Louisiana,” he said, his voice rough with need, hopeful that only Athos would recognise the signs of his arousal.

“God, I can’t wait to see it. It sounds fascinating,” said D’Artagnan. “It’s an old plantation house hidden away in the bayou.”

The spell was broken, and Porthos groaned inwardly as two of his checkboxes were immediately ticked. He’d been hoping against hope that Athos had got it wrong.

“It was owned by the original family right up until six months ago, when a British couple bought it. They’re now in the process of renovating the place, with a plan to run it as a bed and breakfast on the Plantation Tour,” continued d'Artagnan. “But the most exciting thing is that it apparently has loads of phenomena, and yet it's never been investigated by anyone.” 

Constance took her iPad out of her handbag and, after selecting a folder, handed it to Porthos. “Doesn’t it look brilliant? I can’t believe d’Artagnan found it. It was sheer luck that it fell into our hands.”

Porthos didn't believe in luck. Things only ever happened for a reason. He scrolled through the pictures, looking first at the huge house with its wrapped verandah and doric columns, and then at the wetlands that bordered the grounds, cypresses lurching over the water with their drapery of fronds that dipped into the swamp like children’s fingers. It was certainly beautiful. It was also oppressive and eerie. “Yeah,” he said, stumbling for the right words. He didn’t usually get an impression from a photograph, but this one was vivid and he shivered in response. “It looks mysterious alright.”

“It does that,” said d’Artagnan. “I can’t wait. We’ve been given free rein by the owner to investigate thoroughly. She’s been staying there alone while her husband’s in Hong Kong and I think she’s getting a bit spooked.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Porthos, looking back at the picture of the house.

“I think it seems rather nice,” said Athos, taking the iPad from him. “Homely.”

Aramis snorted. “And that could only come from a man whose family owns a chateau in France.”

“Two, actually,” said Athos. “We have a smaller one at Bragelonne as well as La Fère.” He grinned. “You must visit sometime.”

“Don’t wind him up,” growled Porthos, staring at Athos from across the table.

“Sorry,” said Athos, with an apologetic smile at Aramis. “Perhaps that’s another good reason why Porthos and I should go by bike.” He and Aramis did have a tendency to squabble over every little thing on a long journey. It was hard to believe they were both firmly in their thirties.

“You’re probably right, your lordship,” admitted Aramis, tugging his forelock then shoving Athos playfully.

Fully fed and well watered, they were ready to leave the diner by nine.

“We’ll never do seven hundred miles in a day,” said Aramis. “We’ll stop for the night somewhere around Memphis. That’s about halfway.” He grinned. “Maybe you’ll see the ghost of Elvis, Porthos.”

“Maybe I will.” Porthos grinned back. “Now that would be a story I’d love to tell.”

“I read that he died on the bog,” sniggered Aramis.

Porthos grimaced. “Hmm, I’ve gone right off the idea of meeting him. Help me get the bike off the board, someone.” 

After Constance made sure the directions were logged into all of their phones, just in case of disaster, Porthos revved up the Busa and watched the RV leave the car park. “You wanting them to get a head start?” he said to Athos when the man finally climbed on behind him.

“Maybe,” said Athos. He smiled, but the sigh that followed told a story. “I miss spending time with you.”

“We had _time_ last night,” said Porthos, twisting around to plant a kiss on Athos’ lips. He truly didn’t give a fuck who was watching, more than happy to show everyone whom he was with. “A real good time, if I remember right,” he added in a gruff voice.

But Athos wasn't in the mood for playing. “It’s never enough though,” he said, with another sigh. “It sounds ridiculous, but I miss the mundane things: cooking together, shopping together, being together. I feel as if we’re always on show here.”

Up until these past couple of days, Porthos hadn’t realised quite how much he longed for their simple life back at home. “Me too,” he said gruffly, and with Athos’ arms wrapped around him, he was sorely tempted to ride straight to the airport.

As they left Evansville for the final time, taking the exit road south, Porthos could hear nothing but Athos’ last sentence going around and around in his head. It bothered him. He wasn’t at all certain how positive everyone was about their relationship, and it was true, they _were_ on show -- the odd couple who were supposed to be friends, but had somehow taken a wrong turning. Had they only ended up together because of a mutual need to drive their respective demons away?

A hundred miles down the highway, Porthos was overwhelmed by a need to talk, kiss, touch: to make sure that what they had together was real and heartfelt. They’d long since left the RV for dust and, so with time on their hands, he took a turning off the highway into a forested recreation area, set neatly between two lakes.

“Where are you going?” shouted Athos as Porthos pulled into the first woodland car park he came to.

Taking off his helmet and putting it on the ground next to him, he watched as Athos did the same, trying to work out exactly what he wanted to say. This final leg of their American tour was freaking him out, and now, for some reason, he was in a total panic that Athos was about to leave him, when, in fact, the man had said precisely the opposite of that, this morning, before they left Evansville.

“We _are_ meant to be together,” he said, twisting around to look at Athos. “I know we are.”

Athos looked puzzled. “Of course we are, Porthos. Whatever’s made you think otherwise?”

“I dunno," said Porthos in a gloomy voice. "I think I'm cracking up. I have a feeling that you were right all along about Louisiana.” It was impossible to escape from under this cloud. “I should have said no to this one,” he added in a monotone.

“If you want to walk away, then that’s exactly what we do.” Athos climbed off the bike and nestled Porthos’ face in the valley of his gloved hands. “Let them do their measurements and readings and call out for the spirits on their own. I don’t give a damn about their research. I only care about you,” he said and he leaned in closer to kiss Porthos, deep and slow, full of love and lust and want.

Leaving himself open, Porthos remained docile, allowing Athos to explore every inch of his mouth. Blood surged through him, his ability to think diminished by his desire. “Ride me here,” he said, in between kisses.

“Not a chance,” said Athos, lurching away from him with an embarrassed smile. “I love you, but not enough to get arrested for indecency.”

Porthos climbed off the bike, hand wrapping snugly around Athos’ wrist. He nodded at the dark forest surrounding them. “In there then,” he breathed. “No one’ll see us, I promise.” He nuzzled into Athos’ neck, cupping a hand over his crotch. “I can tell how much you want me.”

“Of course I want you, I always want you, but the answer’s still no.” Athos tipped Porthos’ chin up with a leather clad finger, and then pressed in closer to kiss him once more. “I _promise_ I’ll make up for it later, as soon as we get to somewhere that has four walls and a door that locks.”

“You do realise that description includes a public toilet cubicle.” Porthos burst into fits at the look of horror on the man’s face. “You’re a ridiculous prude.”

“I can’t help it,” said Athos, blushing crimson, and it was such an adorable sight that Porthos decided it was his new ambition to make this happen as often as possible. 

“So, which one of us is calling d’Artagnan to tell him we’ve changed our minds and are going home?” Athos continued as soon as his face had returned to its normal shade of pale.

“Neither of us,” said Porthos. He hated letting people down, especially when he had no valid excuse. “We’ll stick to the plan and get it over and done with, as quick as you can say catfish." He grinned, his bad mood now a thing of the past after seven minutes in heaven with Athos. "In fact, catfish can be our safe word if we ever need to make a sudden escape.”

“And as soon as we get to our Country & Western themed B&B in Memphis, you can fuck me senseless for the entire night,” smirked Athos. He kissed Porthos one final time, and it turned into something as intimate as it was arousing. 

“Why the hell did it take us so long to figure this out?” said Porthos, struck by a lightning bolt of amazement. They’d been best mates for eight years until everything got turned on its head during a wet and windy research weekend in the Lake District. All thoughts of quad biking went right out the window, once they discovered how much fun could be had from staying indoors.

“I genuinely think we were both idiots,” said Athos, initiating yet another final round of kissing. He might not be into exhibitionist sex, but he certainly wasn't afraid of showing his feelings in public.

“Enough,” said Porthos, breaking away from the lure of that mouth. “Unless you want me dragging you, caveman style, into the bushes.”

"You can drag me to bed later," said Athos, his eyes bright with happiness as he placed a gloved palm on Porthos' cheek.

They set off once again, racing through the forest and across the narrow bridge, cruising past the RV for a second time, with Athos raising a fist in triumph as they overtook their friends. 

It was the perfect day for a bike ride, and, now that he’d set aside his worries for the present, Porthos could enjoy the journey: the wind in his face, the sun blasting down at them from above. It would undoubtedly be humid in the bayous, but the weather would have to be pretty extreme for it to bother him. Athos, on the other hand, would moan like hell, and he’d have to come up with plenty of ways to distract his man, using the alternative kinds of stickiness and heat. He was looking forward to that part of the trip.

A couple of hours later, they stopped for lunch at a small roadside eatery that lay on the far side of a 'blink and you've missed it' town called Milan -- a version that was a million miles from Italy. The best thing about the US was the vast untapped wealth of wonderful places to eat. The worst thing, Porthos decided as he tucked into some amazing soul food, was the vast untapped wealth of wonderful places to eat.

“I’m going to put on at least a stone by the time I leave here,” he said mournfully, reaching over to chuck his empty carton in the bin.

Athos wound both arms tightly around him. “I like having something to hang onto,” he said, nibbling at Porthos' earlobe and ignoring the pointed looks from a few of the other diners.

“You saying I have love handles?” said Porthos, turning his head for a kiss.

“I’m saying you’re perfect,” laughed Athos. “Now give Aramis a ring and find out where we’re stopping for the night.” He climbed off the bike. “I need a piss. I’ll see you in a minute.”

The phone call didn’t take long and, as Porthos waited for Athos to come back from the toilets, he watched one of the ‘empties’, as he called them, amble off down the road. There were so many of them, lost souls without any desire to find a connection, content to roam about for eternity. The ghost walked through a line of customers at the food shack and no one even noticed. It was a sad way to end up.

“So, where are we off to?” said Athos happily as he straddled the bike, put on his lid and locked his arms around Porthos.

“If I said Heartbreak Hotel, would you believe me?” grinned Porthos.

“I’d believe most things with Aramis in charge of the booking,” said Athos, “but I’m struggling with this one. Heartbreak Hotel, you say?”

“The one and only.” Porthos nodded. “Apparently, it’s next door to Graceland and has a convenient RV park. I wouldn't bet against it being at the end of Lonely Street.”

“Perfect then,” said Athos, with a wry twist of the lips. “Who could ask for more?”

Porthos started the bike, but before putting on his helmet he looked back over his shoulder. “I love you,” he said, shaken by how much he meant it.

“What?”

Porthos smiled and shook his head. The words didn’t matter. Athos knew them well enough by now.


	3. Chapter 3

From this point onwards, the fun disappeared and it turned into a laborious drag of a journey. The scenery was dull, and the closer they got to Memphis, the more traffic there was on the roads. When they finally arrived at the Graceland RV park and campsite, Porthos couldn’t have given a flying fuck if the adjoining hotel was Barbie themed, such was his level of discontentment. All he wanted from life was to get off the Busa, stretch his legs, and gulp down a nice cold, ice cold beer. 

"So, you finally made it," said Aramis, who was sitting on the step of the RV, having a cigarette. "How many shags did you have to stop for along the way? We've been here hours waiting for you."

"Bollocks," growled Porthos. "We were queued up behind you when you pulled in."

“It was worth a try.” Aramis laughed and, standing up, he ground his half smoked cigarette into the tarmac and slung an arm around his friends’ shoulders. "I missed you two morons.” 

Athos did an amused double take. 

“Yes, even you, M le Comte,” continued Aramis. “D'Artagnan and Constance are so young and earnest. It's ghosts this and ghouls that, every second of the damn day."

Porthos wished he could pass on his detectorist skills to the kid. "Don't worry. We'll be in the RV with you tomorrow, mate. I’m not riding through the bayous on the bike."

"There are alligators lurking around every corner," drawled Athos. "Big frightening ones apparently."

Aramis laughed and hugged them both hard for a second. "Come on then, boys. Let's grab our stuff and head for the Heartbreak Hotel. The children are there right now, checking us in."

The hotel wasn’t anywhere near as terrifying as Porthos had been expecting, but he had a nagging suspicion that something was up when the receptionist kept glancing at them, a curious smile on her face. He’d pretty much put it down to the simple fact that he and Athos were booked into a double together, but then he opened the door to their room and jerked backwards in shock as if he’d been punched in the face.

Aramis practically fell over laughing. “It’s the Burning Love suite,” he sniggered. “Don’t knock it, my darlings. It cost us a load of money.”

“It’s not coming out of the grant funding,” insisted d’Artagnan.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud,” giggled Constance. “Of course it is. Everything’s cheap over here, and it’s worth it to see their little faces.”

“I don’t have a _little face_ ,” said Athos, walking in and chucking his bag onto a lavishly upholstered chair. He sat on the king sized bed, doing a test bounce, and then threw himself backwards with a sigh of delight. “But we appreciate the gesture all the same. Thank you.”

As the younger members of the team left them to it--d'Artagnan still complaining about the cost of the suite--Porthos sat next to Athos to discover that the bed was, in fact, a dream. If whores' boudoirs were always this comfortable, he’d be more than happy to stay in them from now onwards.

“Enjoy your honeymoon,” said Aramis, with a wink. “We’ll see you in the restaurant at seven.”

“I have a feeling this joke may have backfired on them,” said Athos, scooching up the bed and curling onto his side, the moment the door slammed shut.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Porthos, crawling cat like towards him and then pouncing. “You promised me a night of _burning love_.”

“A _night_ of burning love,” murmured Athos with a smirk. “Not an afternoon. Besides, you haven’t done your customary spook check.”

A cursory inspection had shown Porthos all he needed to know. If the bathroom was full of dismembered corpses then they could wait a while longer for him to send them on their way.

~*~

Porthos woke to the sound of a frightened scream, his skin chilled instantly to ice. At first, he wasn’t sure whether the cry had originated from him. He was prone to nightmares, sometimes even terrors which were far worse and much harder to come back from, leaving him suspended between conscious and unconscious: between life and death, it felt like. This time, however, it was Athos who was bolt upright in bed, staring sightlessly, the lights from the sign outside drenching him in Heartbreak red.

“I can’t find you,” he whispered. “I’ll keep looking. I promise.”

“I’m here,” said Porthos, arms wrapping around Athos, pulling him back between the crimson satin sheets and comforting him for a change. “Everything’s fine,” he soothed. “Everything’s okay.”

“I’ll find you,” Athos said, staring wide eyed at Porthos in the half light, his senses slowly returning to him.

“Who are you looking for, Athos?” asked Porthos, kissing him on the forehead. 

“I have no idea,” said the man, baffled and pretty embarrassed, from the sound of it. “What did I say?”

“Nothing much,” said Porthos, switching on the bedside light for some reassurance. “Nothing at all really. You’re as twitchy as I am.”

“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” admitted Athos. “I feel.” He paused. “I feel as if we’re digging ourselves into a very deep hole.”

“Yeah,” agreed Porthos. It did seem exactly like that. Claustrophobic and hopeless. Digging their own graves, was a phrase that came to mind. “We’ll be okay though. You and me together.”

“Against the world,” said Athos, and he tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it, his eyes restlessly searching out the mini bar.

Porthos noticed, but didn’t say anything. He was sick to death of noticing. It scared him that Athos’ first port of call, at any time of the day or night, was alcohol. He steered him away from the thought of a drink with hugs and tiny kisses, scratchy brushes of mouths which grew into something that was hot and distracting enough for both of them. With Athos on all fours, bracing himself with a hand on the velvet covered headboard, Porthos thrust into him, arching back in pleasure as he filled him, open, wet and bare.

He’d never had a male lover before Athos. Had never even thought about it. No moments of curiosity when he was a kid. No overly long looks at some of the fit guys in the changing rooms of the gym. Nothing. Not even a vague interest in the well hung blokes from the pornos. He was straight: a zero on the Kinsey scale.

He knew it was the same for Athos. Their first kiss had been an earth shattering moment for both of them. Neither drunk, nor scared, nor adrenalised from success, they’d been sharing a room at a small hotel near Windermere, talking over plans for the next day, when, in a heartbeat, everything changed.

“Did we just-?” Athos had said, looking at him with confused eyes, and, frightened that he was going to add _make a mistake_ to the end of that sentence, Porthos had cupped Athos’ face and hurriedly kissed him again.

Both of them being totally inexperienced at this, they’d spent their entire first night together on a journey of exploration, discovering the best ways to rub and suck and stroke and kiss one another to climax after climax, until they were both utterly spent, and just a little bit broken from the enormity of what was happening between them.

They didn’t get around to full sex until much later into their relationship, and it involved a lot of patience on both their parts. They would never have been able to fuck this way when they were new at being lovers. With a hand splayed possessively on Athos’ back, Porthos canted his hips and slammed home. Home was the word for it: home, love, comfort, all three tied together in Porthos head, and unequivocally linked to a picture of Athos. The man had been his rock since they were undergraduates at university together, nursing him through visions and nightmares and endless hordes of unsettled dead. The least he could do, in return, was to help him cope with his alcoholism.

No one ever said that word out loud. Athos was a heavy drinker. A binge drinker, even a problem drinker, but never an alcoholic. Porthos had held his head as he was sick and cleaned him up afterwards. He’d spent the night with him on countless occasions, making sure he didn’t die in his sleep. He’d commiserated with him when he’d fucked up his finals, too drunk to sit any of them, and had to repeat an entire year for no reason. And whereas Porthos was much in demand by the younger graduates from the psych department, Athos was not. Impressively bright, with a dry sense of humour and a quiet desire to help out, only Porthos and Aramis had ever been prepared to look beneath the surface of the grim faced pisshead with a notoriously bad temper.

Athos was shoving back against him now, making these breathy little moans that had Porthos clinging to the edge of sanity. “Want my hand now, or my mouth afterwards?” he asked in a strung out voice.

“Hand, please, now,” gasped Athos.

Porthos reached for him, stroking him in time with the fuck, and, rearing upwards, Athos stretched closer for sloppy kisses, sucking at Porthos’ tongue. Throwing back his head, he let out a sudden, startled cry of pleasure then came in thick bursts over the bed covers, Porthos holding him in place and working him down from his climax with a firm hand and gentle words.

“You’re amazing,” he said, feeding Athos his own spunk, and shivering with delight at the sensation of that tongue lapping at his fingers. Unable to last a moment longer, he gripped him with an arm, curving over him and coming in a series of animal grunts. 

They slept as they fell, spooned together on top of the covers, sticky with sex and sweat, and when Porthos awoke to the jangling tones of a phone ringing, he was unable to place where they were at first. This red monstrosity of a room was so garish in the morning sunlight, that he needed Ray-Bans to focus.

“What?” he muttered into his mobile.

“Time to get up, you sex crazed morons,” yelled Aramis. “You didn’t turn up for dinner last night, so you can at least be civilised and join us for breakfast.”

“Wha’ time is it?” muttered Porthos, stroking a finger across Athos’ bare chest, tracing the compass points from nipple to nipple as the man gazed up at him with smiling eyes and insane bed hair.

“It’s eight o’clock, so get the fuck up,” shouted Aramis, his decibel level far too high for first thing in the morning. 

Porthos powered off the phone and dropped it to the floor.

“I’m up,” said Athos, the corner of his mouth tipping into a smirk.

“So, as it happens, am I,” said Porthos, clambering on top of him and taking both hard cocks into his hand. He loved the contrast of their skin tones; they were beautiful together. “Ain't that a coincidence?” he growled. “I reckon we may as well make more of a mess of these bloody awful red sheets before we vacate the Heartbreak Hotel.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re a badly behaved pair of ingrates,” complained Aramis when they finally arrived at the RV, drinking take away coffee and eating pastries. “You will not slope off to the back to cuddle together and whisper in each other’s ears. You will take your turns at driving and entertaining me.”

Aramis might have sounded light hearted, but he was well and truly pissed off with them, Porthos realised, and he supposed he couldn’t totally blame him. But then again, the man had come up with the idea for the suite.

“Your fault, mate,” he said with a wink. “If you book us a honeymoon, you have to expect we’re going to make the most of it.”

“Touché.” Aramis inclined his head and smiled at them. “But the rest of what I said still stands.”

The drive through Tennessee and on into Mississippi was tedious, but Porthos decided he’d rather be concentrating on the road, than listening to D'Artagnan and Constance go over endless minutiae concerning the forthcoming investigation.

“Why are you even interested in the afterlife, d’Artagnan?” muttered Athos after yet another hour of ghost talk. Yawning, he lay back on the couch, a straw hat--his favourite joke present from Aramis--covering his eyes and a can of Coors dangling limply in his hand. Porthos was keeping the usual tally in his head. “I could understand it if you had even a tenth of Porthos’ abilities, but, without them, isn’t it all a bit pointless?”

“Athos,” snapped Constance, clearly annoyed with him.

“It’s an honest question.”

“To which I’ll give you an honest answer,” said d’Artagnan. “Of course I’d give anything to be able to do what Porthos does, but I’m not lucky enough to have his gift. This is why I’m trying my hardest to find some other way of recording the evidence.”

“Why?” asked Athos, tipping back his hat just enough to peer curiously out at the young man.

“I have my reasons,” said d’Artagnan.

“If it were possible, it would have been done long ago,” said Athos, with another yawn. “Don’t waste your time.”

“Waste my time?” D’Artagnan snorted in disbelief. “Jesus! If only I could spend my life tagging along after my psychic lover, coasting on his success and achieving nothing but getting drunk off my arse every single day, hoping that no one notices.”

“Which you’re paying me to do.” Athos waved his hat in d’Artagnan’s direction and reached for another beer from the six pack. “So which one of us is the bigger loser?”

“ _Athos_ , shut it,” warned Porthos from the front, irritated because today had got off to such a good start. For some reason, his boyfriend was being far more belligerent than usual, which didn’t bode well for the remainder of the journey. At the best of times, his surly presence amongst them was a red rag to a bull. 

Porthos could never understand how the man generated such animosity in people. He wasn’t a mean drunk, nor a particularly loud one either. He liked to keep his own counsel, even as far as Porthos was concerned, and, more often than not, he was reticent, with a deep desire to stay away from others. Yet d’Artagnan had taken an instant dislike to him and Constance mostly kept her distance. Even Aramis, the sweetest natured of people, often found him antagonising. Athos didn’t seem bothered by this in the slightest, but it upset Porthos a great deal.

Thundering down the highway, they stopped for lunch at a Burger King restaurant, Porthos deliberately choosing the first place they came to without a bar, seeing as Athos was clearly intent on spending the entire day suspended in a haze of alcohol.

“Not far to go now,” said d’Artagnan, picking the unwanted bits out of his Whopper and chucking them away. He consulted the map on his phone. “If all goes to plan we should be there in a couple of hours.”

“I suppose it’s confession time,” said Aramis warily. “The only place I could find to stay nearby was an out of the way motel. It looks a bit Norman Bates,” he added with a wince. “I booked it because we had to have somewhere to sleep, and we always say the closer the better. It was either that, or all of us in the RV.”

Porthos wondered how terrible it must actually be, to seem that shitty on a website. He locked eyes with Athos, warning him silently not to say a word. The tension was thick enough as it was, without him stirring up trouble. 

There was a silent battle between them, at the end of which Athos got to his feet and threw his unwanted fries in the bin. “Shall we go?” he said, aiming a disgruntled look at Porthos. “I’d drive, but I’m sure you’ll all tell me I’m far too pissed on my two beers.”

Three, thought Porthos, but he wasn’t going to say anything. The build up of pressure was getting to them, the air dense with humidity, and he prayed for a storm to lighten the atmosphere. He was shattered. “Someone else can do the driving for a while,” he said gruffly, throwing the keys on the table, relieved when Constance immediately appropriated them. She was more experienced at American roads than the rest of them, and he didn’t want to fight with Athos.

With the two youngsters up front and Aramis snoozing on the couch, Porthos was glad to have the opportunity to sit with Athos so they could be together, quiet and content once again. They held hands, both men staring out of the window as Porthos watched a bough full of decayed bodies swing from an old crossroads hanging tree. An old man stood beneath the corpses, leaning on a crutch and smiling at them. It wasn’t the most pleasant of welcomes to the bayou, but Porthos felt it best not to comment, and ignored the bloke who waved his pipe at them with the familiarity of a friend as the RV passed him by.

“Some reading material for you both,” said d’Artagnan, passing out blue plastic binders.

Porthos shoved the folders back at him with a splayed hand. “We don’t need any prior knowledge,” he said with a frown. “You know that.”

“But this place is different,” said d'Artagnan, his stance uncomfortable as if he were constipated from too many repressed words.

“Why?” asked Porthos.

“It’s got a history,” said d’Artagnan awkwardly.

“Of badly treated slaves?” said Porthos. “I kind of guessed that part, mate.” He wondered whether the kid was having second thoughts. Maybe the tension was getting to him. “I’m pretty sure it won’t be easy for me, d’Artagnan, but Athos and I agreed to give it a go and we’ll do so, but only on our terms.” He watched the young man’s eyes travel scornfully over Athos and felt a surge of anger well up inside him. “I can’t do this without him,” he said under his breath and it was true. He’d be able to contact the spirits alright, but some of them wanted to talk and talk and would never let go of him. They listened to Athos when he sent them across.

Athos squeezed his hand and carried on staring out of the window at the swampland. “I haven’t seen one alligator so far,” he said. “It’s most disappointing.”

Porthos grinned for the first time since they’d set out today. It was nice not to be trying to mend fences, even if it only lasted for five minutes.

The journey was getting more difficult with every mile they clocked up. A medium sized RV was not the best kind of vehicle in which to tour the swamplands of Louisiana. The towns were fine and the roads linking them together were wide and straight, but the byways were a nightmare and Constance was finding the backwaters to be tough going.

“I vote we rent a normal car if we ever make it to Thibodaux,” she griped as she swerved through a series of bends. “It’s bad enough driving on the wrong side of the road, but on the wrong side of the road, in this thing, in this place. It’s bloody ridiculous.”

“Stop here,” said d’Artagnan in an excited voice.

“I can’t just stop whenever you tell me to,” she snapped, but a hundred yards or so down the road she was able to find an area wide enough to pull in. “Why here?”

“That’s the house we're investigating,” said d’Artagnan, pointing back the way they had come. “That’s why I directed us this way. I knew we were close by, so I was keeping an eye out for it.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” said Aramis. “Let’s go and have a peek at our next project.”


	5. Chapter 5

Porthos was experiencing a growing sense of foreboding. He was supremely glad it was still daylight, because at night this place must teem with horror. He and Athos followed the others, their fingers laced tightly together, exchanging neither a word, nor even a glance. 

They stopped in front of a pair of arched iron gates and Aramis peered through them in the direction of the house. “I thought you said it was done up.”

“I said it was in the process of being done up,” clarified d’Artagnan, staring at the building in amazement. It looked back at them through a twisted tunnel of cypresses. “Isn’t it incredible?”

Porthos was struggling to come up with a more suitable adjective that wouldn’t annoy his young friend, when Athos suddenly shook free of him and looked around in bemusement as if he’d just woken up from a dream. “What is it?” said Porthos.

“I don’t know,” said Athos, walking towards the gates, his hands wrapping around the bars. “I thought I…”

“You thought you…?” prompted Porthos, closing the gap between them to stand protectively behind the man.

“I don’t know.” Athos muttered something else under his breath.

“What did you say?” said Porthos. He was highly sensitive to distress, and Athos’ aura was more than a little disconcerting right now: hot and cold colours all merging together into a carnival of confusion. He’d never seen anything like it.

“Belle Isle,” Athos murmured, pushing at the gates until they gave way to allow him entry, and then walking slowly up the wide, weed-encrusted driveway.

“How could you know that?” D’Artagnan took a stride forward, grabbing the man by the arm and Athos turned, a look on his face that bothered Porthos immensely. It was if he’d been caught napping. “Tell me.”

“Know what?” said Athos. “I don’t know anything.” He pulled away from d’Artagnan as if the pressure of his grip was too much to bear. “Can we please go?” he said, looking to Porthos for help.

Porthos wasn't about to let him down. Every step was like struggling through quicksand, and, once he’d reached him, he clung to Athos, tethered to the man to protect himself from the onslaught. The cries of misery were hideous, a rising cacophony coming at him from all angles, and if he hadn’t needed his hands to hold on tight, he would have clamped them over his ears.

“I’m sorry, Porthos. I didn’t think.” Buffeted by the force of the spirits, Athos shushed him and calmed him, making sure that his face was pressed firmly against his shoulder at all times to keep him from seeing the worst.

“It’s okay. Just make them go away,” begged Porthos. “Please.”

“I don’t think I can. You know how it works. We need to get out of here now,” said Athos, dragging Porthos away from the grounds and back to the safety of the RV where he settled him against his side, talking him down and comforting him with gentle touches to help him through this. “I’m so sorry.”

“What happened in there?” said Aramis in a hushed voice, taking the other flank and protecting Porthos from whatever had gone wrong.

“Too many dead,” said Athos bleakly. “When they find someone who can hear them, then it becomes a riot and he can’t cope with it. I did warn you. This is dangerous and I don’t want any part of it.”

Porthos shoved himself against Athos, burying himself, needing to be as close as possible. “I’m okay now. I am really.”

“You got no more than two feet inside the gates and this happened,” said Athos, his voice rising in pitch as his anxiety increased. “I call catfish.”

“Not yet, please,” said Porthos. He desperately wanted to do something to help some of these poor souls pass over. “They weren’t angry, they were just chuffed that I could hear them. I wasn’t prepared for it, but I will be tomorrow. If this happens again, believe me, it'll be catfish all the way home.”

“Catfish?” asked Aramis, squeezing Porthos’ hand.

“It’s our safe word for when things get bad,” explained Porthos, daring finally to open his eyes and then looking at Aramis with an unsteady grin. “Get this bus moving, Constance,” he called. “My stomach thinks my throat has been cut.”

“Right you are, bossy boots,” said Constance, starting the engine. “Who’s navigating?”

“I am,” said d'Artagnan, taking the passenger seat, but still looking over his shoulder at them, a thousand questions in his eyes.

Porthos avoided his gaze. He had no desire to talk about those poor bloody wretches who’d been whipped so brutally that the skin had been flayed off them until their bones were showing. Or the women who’d been raped and mutilated, their babies ripped from their breasts. He didn’t dare think about the little children who’d been hanged for not working hard enough or he'd cry. 

He slipped away into his safe place--a comforting combination of sunshine, food and Athos--and was surprised when the RV pulled to a halt, what seemed like seconds later.

“Thank you for travelling with Bonacieux Tours,” announced Constance, an invisible microphone in her hand. “I hope you enjoyed your journey. Please make sure you have all your belongings with you, and don’t forget to show your appreciation for the driver on your way out.”

“I appreciate you, Connie,” Aramis bowed theatrically as he filed past her. “I really do.”

“And I’d appreciate you not calling me Connie,” she said, smiling at him. 

The motel was no more than three miles away from the planter’s estate, a row of sixties built units, any paint that had originally been applied to the clapboard exterior now completely weathered away, leaving the place grey and dingy looking, more like a prison block than a hotel.

“I see what you mean, Aramis. I have to admit I’m surprised there isn’t an old mansion on a hill nearby,” smirked Athos, as he surveyed the buildings with an air of disenchantment.

“I did warn you.” Aramis slapped him on the back. “The good news is that the diner appears to be open, so Porthos here won’t have to resort to catching alligators for supper.”

“Fat chance,” said Porthos. Amazing as it might seem, he was more scared of the swamps and their prehistoric residents than he was of having to deal with a mob of dead people, all of them wanting to be saved. “Hurry up, mate,” he said. “Get us checked in so we can go and have some bloody food before the place decides to shut.”

“Go feed your face, big man,” said Aramis. “I’ll sort out the admin and join you lot in two shakes.”

Porthos nodded his approval. It was a strange kind of existence they led, and this was how they got through it. They went to hell and out the other side on a daily basis, and then fought off the tension with humour and food. Sex. Booze. Anything that worked for them.

Apart from having Athos in his life, there was nothing that made Porthos happier than to walk into a restaurant and smell the magical aroma of great cooking. Going by the outside, he hadn’t been expecting much from the Good Eats diner, but was surprised when he entered in to find it spotlessly clean and wonderfully welcoming.

The place was empty and they chose one of the biggest booths, close enough to the kitchen to drink in the warmth of spices and roasting meat. A large smiley face badge declared their waitress to be named Clarissa, and she diligently reiterated the fact when she came over to take their orders.

“Beers for five, please,” said Porthos. “Our friend is just across the road, checking us into the motel.”

“Coming right up,” said Clarissa. “Are you guys here for the night tours?” she asked from behind the counter as she filled two pitchers with Miller.

“Night tours?” asked d’Artagnan

“I guess not then,” she said with a smile. “The after dark air boat trips set off from close by. Folks here on vacation love them.”

“I am so up for that,” said Constance, bouncing with enthusiasm. “Where do I sign?”

Clarissa carried over the tray and handed Constance a flyer. “You’re a braver girl than I am, missy,” she said. “You won’t catch me in the bayous at night.”

“We’re actually here to visit Belle Isle,” said d’Artagnan. “Do you know anything about the place?”

The sunny smile vanished from Clarissa’s face. “I know I’d rather take the night tours of the swamp,” she said and scurried back to the counter. “Call me over when you’re ready to order.”

Ominous, thought Porthos with a shiver, looking over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening. Sliding in closer to Athos, he made room for Aramis who took up his rightful spot on the other side. He loved the way both men constantly watched over him, and as he studied the menu he finally felt safe again.

The Creole food they served here turned out to be incredible. They all stuffed their faces with spicy shrimp and rice and chicken, eating until they could eat no more. The pitchers were refilled and finished and, after that, they moved on to coffee and beignets, none of them keen to swap the warmth of Good Eats for the gloomy Bates Motel, a few hundred yards away.

“I have a question for you.” D’Artagnan stared across the table at Athos. “How did you know the house was called Belle Isle?” 

“I didn’t.” Athos stared back at him, his head cocked to one side. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You _did_ say it.” Porthos looked sideways at him. “When we were outside the gates.”

Athos frowned in confusion. “Then I can only assume it was from your information booklet, d’Artagnan.”

“Good try, except that the name of the house wasn’t in there,” said d’Artagnan. “I only found that out this morning after calling the owner for directions. Plus, you never even bothered to flick through it.”

“The internet then. Books on the local area. Maps,” listed Athos curtly. “There are a million different ways to find things out without having to rely on you as an oracle.”

“But you don’t actually know,” said Porthos gently.

Athos shrugged and pulled his beignet into tiny doughy pieces. “Coincidence probably. You must have misheard what I said.” 

When he picked up a menu and studied it in great detail, Porthos automatically knew which section he was reading from. “Don’t have a drink,” he said in an undertone, his hand covering his mouth to ensure that no one overheard him. “Please. I need you to be clear headed tomorrow. I need _you_.” Not the drunken, hopeless mess who was of no use to anyone.

Athos nodded his head and put the menu back in its rack, chewing at his nails instead, unsettled and miserable. 

Dispirited once again, Porthos hoped that the subject had been put to rest and that d’Artagnan would have the sense to remain quiet about Belle Isle for the remainder of the evening.


	6. Chapter 6

Waking suddenly in the middle of the night, Porthos pulled the thin covers over him and curled into Athos’ side. He rolled over to an empty bed and then lay on his back, waiting for the man to return from the loo, where a light was shining out brightly from the gap under the door.

“Athos,” he called after another ten minutes had elapsed and there was still no sound from the bathroom. “You haven’t fallen asleep in there, have you?” It wouldn’t be the first time, ‘though usually, in those instances, Athos was passed out drunk on the floor and Porthos had to sort him out and stick him under a cold shower. 

Thinking himself into a state of panic, Porthos jumped out of bed, striding over and throwing open the door, terrified of what he was about to find in there. Athos had been in a weird mood all day, and there was no certainty that he didn’t have an emergency bottle of bourbon stashed away somewhere in his luggage. 

Porthos was far more frightened when he discovered, to his dismay, that Athos wasn’t there at all. “Oh fuck,” he breathed, pulling on cargoes and a t-shirt and picking up his phone from the bedside table. Dialing Athos’ number, he jumped a mile when the tuneless generic ringtone chimed out from the far side of the room. The mobile was sitting on the dressing table where Athos had left it last night. 

Kicking on his shoes, Porthos raced outside, hoping to find his boyfriend lying on top of the RV and looking up at the stars, or something equally as innocent. It was as humid as hell and Athos was notorious for finding it difficult to sleep in the heat, but there was no sign of him in the car park, or anywhere in the vicinity. The diner was closed for the night and there were no other buildings in sight. 

Frantic by now, Porthos banged on the door of the adjoining room to his, which Aramis was sharing with d’Artagnan. “Have you seen Athos?” he said as soon as Aramis answered, bleary eyed and wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.

“What? No, I haven’t. ” he said, coming around slowly as he tried to work out what the hell Porthos was on about. “Not since we all went to bed. Why are you asking me? He’s your boyfriend.”

“Fuck,” said Porthos, leaning against the wall of the building. “He’s gone. His phone’s here, but his wallet’s missing.” He was shaking. “God, I don’t know what to do, Aramis. This isn’t like him.” Except for the times when it was _exactly_ like him, which, thankfully, were becoming fewer and farther between these days.

“I’ll call Constance,” said d’Artagnan. “She’ll know.”

“He wanted another drink, but I asked him not to,” said Porthos in a monotone. “I should’ve let him have one.”

“When does he ever stop at one?” said Aramis, his irritation with Athos, and those habitual binges, quite clear to see.

“He’s been a lot better recently,” said Porthos, on the defensive as always. “I’m not just saying that. He really has. He’s been try-”

“How many beers did he have today?” interrupted Aramis, jerking from a slouch to an upright position as he looked out over the car park.

“About five,” said Porthos. He knew it was five; he kept a close count on every unit that passed the man's lips. Unless, of course, he _had_ been drinking in secret. “Why?”

“I don’t want to worry you, but the bike’s gone from the back of the camper.”

Porthos felt sick to his stomach, all that fear and panic turning into a heaving mass of bile. He was cold, empty inside. He couldn’t feel Athos close by and he needed him here. Now.

“Should we call the police?” said d’Artagnan, emerging fully dressed from the room.

“And say what?” snapped Porthos, pacing up and down the uneven paving slabs. “That my boyfriend’s a fucking arsehole, and he’s out there somewhere trying to kill himself on a motorcycle.”

“Calm down,” said Aramis trying to console him. “I doubt he’s too drunk to ride safely. Five beers over the course of a day is nothing. Especially with the amount of food we all ate at dinner.”

Porthos began to relax. Aramis was right. He was over reacting as usual, behaving as if it were a three year old child who had gone missing, rather than a grown man.

“But he’ll still be over the limit here in Louisiana,” said Constance, looking up the information on her phone. “And God knows how much he’s had by now.”

Aramis shot her an angry look. “Not helping, Constance.”

“I’m going to take the RV and go look for him,” said Porthos, cursing Athos, cursing his own stupidity for leaving the keys to the Suzuki just sitting there on the bedside table.

“You can’t, Porthos,” said Aramis, resting a hand on his shoulder. “That thing’s a nightmare to drive during the day and you won’t stand a chance at night. Besides that, where on earth are you going to look for him?”

“The nearest bar,” said Porthos grimly. “I’ve had it. I can’t deal with him and his fucking benders any longer.” He didn’t mean a word of it of course. If he could just have Athos returned safely to him, he’d look after him until the end of time. 

His words turned into a silent prayer and, as if God were listening for once, there was the roaring sound of a powerful engine and the Busa snarled into the car park. Athos pulled up in front of them and took off his helmet. “What’s this?” he said as he kicked the stand into place and climbed off the bike. “A welcome home party? How thoughtful.”

“Don’t you fucking take the piss,” yelled Porthos, clamping his hands down hard on those narrow shoulders. Leaning in close, he could smell nothing but a faint tang of long gone beer and some creole spices. “Where have you been?”

“I couldn’t sleep so I went for a ride,” said Athos. “And, no, I haven’t been drinking,” he added in a ice cool voice. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare risk your precious Hayabusa.”

“You fucking idiot,” growled Porthos, heart beating like a drum as his arms snaked out, wrapping around Athos and pulling him close. “It’s not the bike that’s precious to me.”

“Well, folks, that’s our mystery kidnapping case solved,” said Aramis. “I think we can all safely go back to bed now and catch up on our beauty sleep.” Reaching out a hand, he ruffled Athos’ hair. “A warning, M de la Fère. You can count on it that I’ll be blaming you for any bags that appear under my eyes tomorrow.”

Porthos still couldn’t speak, neither could he let go of Athos quite yet, and eventually, when they finally managed to pull away from each other, they found themselves in an empty car park.

“Bed,” said Porthos gruffly, knowing it was the only safe place for either of them. 

“Bed,” agreed Athos, docile and quiet, following Porthos back to their room.

Stripped naked and twined around each other, Porthos kissed Athos lovingly on the lips. “Don’t you dare even _think_ of going walkabout without me ever again, you hear?” he said, but when Athos shifted in his arms, trying to avoid all eye contact, Porthos knew that something was really bothering him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“How much did I have to drink today?” said Athos.

It was a curious question and not the one Porthos was expecting. “Not much,” he said. “Five beers. Why?”

“That’s what I thought,” said Athos in a worried voice. “But I don’t understand, because I must have had enough to black out. It’s the only rational explanation I can come up with.” He leant on an elbow and looked at Porthos. “I don’t remember getting up, or getting dressed, or even taking the bike. I don’t remember anything until I was standing outside those damn gates again. What the fuck happened?”

“I don’t know.” Porthos was worried, but he didn't want to upset Athos any more than he was already. “It sounds like sleepwalking,” he said with a shrug.

“A rather extreme form of it,” smirked Athos. “Also, I don’t have a clue what you and d’Artagnan were talking about over dinner. I honestly don’t remember anything about a house name.”

“Don’t panic,” said Porthos, pulling Athos to him and peppering his lips with more kisses. “If it happens again you go see a doctor straight away. But in the meantime-”

“You’ll hide the bike keys at night,” said Athos, the words warm and distracting against Porthos’ mouth.

“I’ll hide the bike keys, your wallet and your clothes. I’ll leave you nothing but a phone,” grinned Porthos, his lips still resting close to Athos’. “Can we fuck?” he breathed, the steady throb of his cock urging him on as he nestled into the warmth of Athos’ body.

“I can’t think of anything I’d like more,” said Athos, gasping with pleasure as Porthos slithered down the bed and took him soft into his mouth. “That’s so good, so fucking good. I love you, Porthos.”


	7. Chapter 7

After the events of the previous night, none of them were up particularly early, with the exception of Constance who’d gone into Thibodaux and rented an Escalade to drive them around the local area more easily.

“We’re spoilt for choice now,” said Aramis, stubbing out his cigarette on the tarmac. “A car, a camper and a motorcycle between the five of us. All we need now is a horse.”

“Are we ready then?” said d’Artagnan, eager to get moving. He looked up at Porthos and remembered to add a little thoughtfulness to his exuberance. “Are _you_ ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” said Porthos, throwing the kid a grateful smile. “I can’t promise I’ll get any further than yesterday, but I’ll give it a go.” He wrapped an arm around Athos. “ _We’ll_ give it a go.”

Athos heaved in a deep breath. “I don’t want us to go there today,” he said and Porthos could actually feel him trembling. 

It was odd, disconcerting, and he didn't like it. Athos rarely lost his cool demeanour, but since coming here he’d been all over the place. “Stay at the motel then,” he said quietly. “Catch up on some sleep.” Only he knew what had actually happened last night and how upset Athos had been as a result. “We'll only be chatting with the home owner and doing some control readings, so I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“No, no.” Athos visibly pulled himself together. “I’m fine, honestly. I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’ve always got the catfish,” said Aramis, leaning over them both from behind.

“We have,” agreed Porthos, although he was aware that so far, as a safe word, it had been a total failure. Athos had called time on this investigation twice already, and yet here they were, on their way to Belle Isle.

After loading the car with a skeleton amount of equipment from the RV, just enough to get them started, they climbed into the big 4x4, Constance driving with d’Artagnan as shotgun and the other three in the back. 

Athos was unresponsive, staring out of the window and not reacting with his usual smile when Porthos squeezed his hand. This was bad; now Porthos had twice as many reasons to be worried. Not only would he have to deal with an onslaught of spirits, but he had to carry the weight of Athos’ problems too. Please let it be the house to blame. He couldn’t stand it if Athos was sick.

“Against the world,” murmured Athos, coming back to life.

Porthos leant against his shoulder, trying to find a comfy spot to use as a pillow and eventually giving up. “You have too many bones,” he said, kissing him on the cheek.

“I have the required amount,” said Athos, his lips tugging upwards into a half smile. “Just a bit less padding than you.”

“You’re calling me fat again,” growled Porthos, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his boyfriend and not looking out at the bayou, for fear of what he might see within the swamplands. Gators were becoming the least of his worries.

“I’m calling you perfect again,” said Athos and, inclining his head, he let his lips touch Porthos’ mouth.

“Are we nearly there yet?” yelped Aramis. “Please say yes, because there’s far too much billing and cooing going on back here. I can’t take any more.” Porthos deliberately deepened the kiss and Aramis elbowed him in the ribs. “I remember when we all used to play Call of Duty together.” He sighed dramatically. “Those were the days. Why did you have to go and fall in love with each other?"

Porthos was never entirely sure how serious Aramis was at times like these. He and Athos had taken a while to be honest about their new relationship, wanting to make certain that what they had together was real and not a stupid mistake. Two months in, and finding it increasingly difficult to hide their growing feelings for each other, they’d sat Aramis down and explained the situation. Understandably, he'd taken it hard, awkward with them at first and leaving them to their own devices as much as possible, but eventually he'd come around to the idea. Years later, though, there were still times like these when it bothered Porthos. He loved Aramis as much as he loved Athos and he’d never want to drive him away.

“Don't fret. We’re here now,” laughed Constance as d’Artagnan jumped out to open the gates.

“Fuck,” said Athos under his breath, and the tension ramped up to such a level that Porthos’ head was throbbing with pain.

Not knowing what else to do, he bundled Athos up in his arms out of a mutual need, scared for them both. His eyes were screwed shut, not daring to look out at what lay within the boundaries of the estate, and trying his best to keep a distance from the dead, he put up a mental shield to ward off the rush of voices. This was the problem yesterday. He’d been totally unprepared for the deluge.

“Bloody hell,” said Aramis as the car drew to a halt. “This place is really freaking you two out. I’ve never seen you react this way to a haunting.”

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before,” said Porthos gruffly, his face still buried against Athos as he was inundated with wave after wave of screaming, singing, crying. “I don’t think I’ll be able to make much sense of it, to be honest.”

“Just try your best,” said d’Artagnan as he climbed out of the Escalade. “Well, guys, this is it. Please God, let us get some sort of conclusive material this time.”

Unwinding himself from Athos’ arms, Porthos gingerly looked around him at the mass of souls, some of them mindless, but most crying out for his help. A single body was strung up from a long, low branch of an sprawling oak tree in the centre of the lawn. There was an old rope swing hanging next to the corpse and it was horrifying to imagine little children playing on it, moving to and fro beside the dead. 

“I think they expect us to get out of the car,” he said, shifting his eyes away from the grim tableau.

“Then their expectations are too high,” smirked Athos, running his hand up the length of Porthos’ thigh. “Though I suppose we must,” he added with a genuine smile.

As he stepped down from the Escalade, he was barged to the ground, falling forwards heavily onto his knees. This time, no one found it the slightest bit amusing, and Aramis rushed over to offer him a hand up. Taking it and hauling himself to his feet, Athos brushed the dirt from his jeans and looked around at the group. “I have a feeling this is going to be a long and tiresome day,” he said with a less convincing smile than the one he was wearing earlier.

“Stick with me,” said Porthos, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “At least I can see when they’re coming to get you.”

As soon as Constance rang the bell, the door opened as if the owner had been waiting impatiently on the mat for their arrival. They were greeted by a startlingly attractive woman. Thirtyish, Porthos would guess and neat as a pin, but slightly jaded around the eyes as if she were lacking many hours of sleep.

“Gosh, you’re much younger than I expected,” she said when d’Artagnan introduced himself and then Constance. “I’m Anne de Winter. Welcome to Belle Isle.”

“And we’re the oldies,” said Aramis with a slight bow as the three veterans made their way up the steps. “I’m Aramis, senior paranormal investigator, and these two idiots are Porthos, our resident psychic, and Athos, his other half and general pain in the backside.”

Instead of laughter, there was a crackle of tension as Anne stared at Athos. “Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked, a slight frown on her face. “I feel as if I do.”

“It seems highly unlikely,” said Athos, cocking his head to one side, “but now that you come to mention it.” 

He shivered, and as Porthos took hold of his hand they were immediately surrounded by a host of greyed out faces, gathering as close as they could get, without actually mounting the steps.

“Perhaps we met before in London,” she said in an aside to Athos as she ushered them all into her home and closed the front door.

“I doubt it,” said Athos. “I’ve lived in Warwickshire for the past fifteen years.”

“Not a county I've ever visited much,” she replied and, after another curious look, she moved off to speak to d’Artagnan and Constance.

As soon as Porthos stepped over the threshold, he was slammed back by a wave of negative energy that was entirely new to him, and had nothing whatsoever to do with restless spirits hunting for release. This was old and dark and _wrong_. It was pungent, reeking of ancient forests and bitter earth. 

Unaware of what was happening behind them, Anne, d’Artagnan and Constance had moved further into the house, and Porthos tried his best to follow them--he hated being a freak--but, once again, he was trapped in the mire. This place was pure poison, the attack continued, and letting out a groan, he doubled over as if he’d been punched in the guts.

“It's okay, Porthos,” said Athos, taking care of him and rubbing his back in slow comforting circles. “Breathe in and out. That’s it. Better now?”

Porthos pushed himself to standing, leaning against the wall and letting go of the fear. He gripped Athos’ hand, weaving their fingers together, and ignoring everything inside and out, he focused solely on those eyes, reaching for the man, needing more of that physical contact, a force that could centre his mind and ground him back to the present. “What would I do without you?” he murmured.


	8. Chapter 8

In the distance, Porthos could hear Anne talking to Constance about the history of the building whilst D'Artagnan was inspecting the downstairs, working out where they would place their monitoring equipment. 

Aramis, however, was remarkably quiet, hanging back and staying as close as possible to his friends. “Oh shit,” he said suddenly. "Shit."

Extricating himself from Athos’ arms, Porthos looked at Aramis, taking in his unusual pallor and frightened eyes. “What’s up?”

The man stared blindly at him and, for the first time ever during an investigation, Porthos watched him seek out the crucifix that he always wore beneath his shirt and clutch it in his palm. 

“This is weird. I feel a bit sick.” He backed away, opening the front door and stumbling outside. “I’m sorry, but I need some air.”

“That’s all three of us in the wars now.” Porthos leaned in and kissed Athos softly on the mouth, their tongues resting together, just for a moment. “I’d better go see if he’s alright. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said and then he followed Aramis out to the verandah where he’d collapsed onto a pensionable age swing seat.

“I feel so stupid,” said Aramis, still trying to catch his breath.

“Now you know what it’s like for me most of the time,” grinned Porthos, perching next to him in hope that the creaking structure would take their combined weight.

They sat together in a comfortable silence, both of them regaining control of their emotions and letting the panic subside.

“I’ve never experienced anything like it,” said Aramis, after a while, the cross still safe inside his fingers. “Is this what all hauntings are like for you?”

“No,” said Porthos, shaking his head. “This is different and we need to find out what it is. There’s something lurking inside that house and it ain’t pleasant. How are you feeling, mate?”

“Well enough to go back in, I think,” said Aramis, getting to his feet. “As long as they can put up with my red face.”

"I'm pretty sure no one noticed but Athos, and he’s always making a twat of himself,” joked Porthos, grabbing hold of Aramis and pulling him in for a quick hug. “It’s all good. It’s just an old house in a weird part of the world. Trust d’Artagnan to have found it.”

“The little shit,” laughed Aramis, kissing Porthos hurriedly on the cheek and breaking free of the hug.

As they were about to re-enter the house, the tear stained face of an elderly woman loomed in at Porthos, her face barely an inch away from his. “Leave this place,” she warned and then she was gone, sucked back into the maelstrom.

“Brilliant,” muttered Porthos.

“What’s that?” said Aramis.

“Nothing,” said Porthos, not wanting to freak Aramis out any more than he was already. “Just talking to myself.”

Following the sound of voices, they discovered the others in a large and airy lounge, and as Porthos crossed the room, his footsteps thudded loud on the planked floor, the echo blending with the whir of the ceiling fan to make a new sound that was so unnatural it caused a pressure imbalance in his ears. It caught him off guard, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a reflection in the mirror that hung above the fireplace, which didn’t quite belong to the present: a figure of a man was standing by the mantlepiece.

“Are you feeling better?” said Anne, disproving Porthos' theory that no one had noticed Aramis’ attack of nausea. She poured coffee into cups and handed them around.

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine now,” said Aramis, flushing again. It was a well known that he liked to be in control at all times. “I must have eaten too many beignets for breakfast.”

“They’re a dreadful addiction, aren’t they?” agreed Anne. “I know they’ll be my downfall when I start having to make them for my paying guests.”

Porthos sat next to Athos, inching as close to him as he could get to try and block out the ugliness of the house. It seemed an unfair description of the place, which was bright and open in style, but it seemed far from that in character.

“Tell us about Belle Isle,” said d’Artagnan.

Anne’s smile faded slightly and she sat in a curved rattan armchair, slumping forward momentarily as if all her energy had been sapped. “It’s a strange old place,” she said. “It has a will of its own so be prepared for blackouts and bumps in the night. The house originally belonged to the Chapelle family. They owned acres of rice and indigo plantations on cleared swampland, and even after the fields were gone, the house remained in the same family for generations. Eloise Chapelle was most determined she would never leave Belle Isle, and died aged ninety four in the house. Around the time she passed away, my husband and I were doing the plantation tour for our summer holiday.” She smiled. “It was John’s idea rather than mine. At the time, I could think of nothing worse. We were coming to the end of the trip, and I was looking forward to going home when John booked us on one of the swamp boat tours, and then that’s when I first came across this house. I found out as much as I could about it from the guide, and then the next day I came back with the realtor. I felt compelled to buy it, the moment I stepped over the threshold.”

“A strange place to choose as a holiday home,” said Aramis, who was edgy and unsettled, on tenterhooks as if he couldn’t wait to be out of there.

“It was an ugly compulsion, I agree,” said Anne, with a sigh. “But John was thrilled at the idea, especially when we bought the house at a knockdown price. He went back to Hong Kong to see about selling his business, leaving me in charge of the renovations, and since I moved here, I haven’t had a decent night sleep.”

“Why?” asked Porthos, noting, with curiosity, that she too had used the word ugly to describe the house.

“You’re the psychic; you tell me,” said Anne with a wry smile. “What do you think of Belle Isle?”

“I can’t say much about the house,” said Porthos. “Not yet anyway. It’s odd for sure, but it’s pretty quiet compared to the grounds.”

“The old slave quarters are across the footbridge to the south of here,” said Anne. “I went there once. I won’t ever go back.” She shuddered and her coffee cup clattered in its saucer.

“Why is that?” asked Constance.

“I’ve never felt so unwelcome anywhere in my life.” Anne stared into space. “I can’t describe it in any other way.”

“Then it sounds like the perfect place to start our investigation,” said d’Artagnan and, realising that it wasn’t the best choice of words, he shrugged apologetically and looked over at Porthos. "If you see what I mean."

Porthos winked at him. After all he’d been through, he wasn’t about to throw his toys out of the pram because of a little over enthusiasm from a student.

“We’ll need to get the portable generator from the RV for that. We only brought a small amount of equipment today. Just enough to start on the house really,” said Constance. “How long can you put up with us, Anne?”

“Oh, as long as you like,” she replied. “I’d be glad of the company, to be honest. The final phase of renovations isn’t due to start until the end of next month. In fact, you’re all most welcome to stay here,” she said and her voice filled with hope. “I was going to mention that in my emails, but I decided it would be best to meet you first. Just to make sure.”

“Very sensible,” said Pothos with a grin, trying to work out the best way to refuse her invitation without causing offence.

“And we haven’t put you off us yet?” said Aramis, his voice tighter than usual, that charm offensive gone missing. “We must be slipping. Of course, Athos here has been as quiet as a mouse. As soon as he opens his mouth you’ll want rid of the lot of us.”

The man was practically babbling, a complete contrast to Athos, who was, indeed, as silent as the grave. Porthos rested a hand on his thigh and glanced sideways at him, trying to figure out what had changed during the past fifteen minutes. “Anyone home?” he murmured.

Athos stared at him. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Fine.”

Catfish, Porthos wanted to say. Catfish. Catfish. Catfish. “You don’t sound fine,” he muttered.

Athos stared at him blankly and Porthos decided that the sooner they got the hell out of here the better. “Thanks a lot for the invitation, Anne, but we’re happy at the motel,” he said. “I always think it’s better not to be too close to an active site.”

“Rubbish,” interrupted d’Artagnan. “It’s a brilliant opportunity to do a full investigation. I can’t thank you enough, Anne.”

“It’s a gorgeous house,” said Constance. “I’d love to stay here, as long as you have enough room for us all.”

“I can see you two are joined at the hip.” Anne smiled at Porthos and Athos. “Is that four rooms, or are any of the rest of you needing doubles?”

“Four is perfect,” said Constance, ignoring a puppy dog look from d’Artagnan.

“I’m sorry, but I agree with Porthos,” said Aramis, standing up and wrapping a hand around the back of his neck. “We’re fine where we are at the motel.”

“No.” D’Artagnan glowered at him. 

"Why don't I leave you in peace to come to a decision?” said Anne diplomatically, picking up the tray. 

“I’m sorry,” said Constance, with a rueful smile. “Men are useless creatures. I have to spend my life with these idiots.”

“We could split up,” suggested Aramis. “We don’t need to be in each other’s pockets night and day.”

“And how would that help? You know we have to have everyone here to track of measurements and monitor the data,” snapped d’Artagnan. “If we stay, we’ll be able to keep the equipment on site and do constant readings. It’s ideal. You must know it’s for the best.”

“Except that some of us don’t want to do it, mate,” said Porthos, joining in with the discussion. “How about we put it to the vote? Hands up all those in favour of staying at the motel.”

Porthos knew it was a manipulation of the situation, but today was about self preservation. D’Artagnan frowned, but then Porthos saw that frown subside a little and, wondering why, he looked around the room. Aramis had his hand up, but Athos was staring down at his locked fingers.

Porthos nudged him. “You’re making me look a right dingbat here. Put your hand up.”

Athos looked at him. “I’d rather stay here,” he said quietly, almost apologetically. “I want to stay here.”

“For fuck’s sake, Athos,” said Aramis, pacing the room, hands in his pockets. “You’re the most contrary man I’ve ever met. This morning you were on the point of refusing to come here at all, and now you don’t want to leave.”

“Belle Isle has that effect on some of us,” said Anne from the doorway. “I hate it, and yet I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m not one of those people,” said Aramis coldly. “I think it’s a rotten to the core, but, in the name of democracy, I’ll stay.”

“Then I suppose we’re all staying.” Porthos had been left with little choice in the matter. Athos was his anchor and without him he’d be lost. “Can we talk?” he said quietly.

Once again, Athos looked bewildered as if he hadn't a clue what was going on around him. He nodded and stood up, walking over to the mantlepiece and running his hand along the smooth polished surface.

“Outside,” said Porthos, gesturing at him with an impatient wave of the hand, needing to be free of this soul sucking atmosphere, for just a minute, so that he could collect his thoughts. He strode to the door, Athos following behind obediently, and for the first time ever, understood the irritation that others felt with his boyfriend. 

“Athos,” he said, as he perched on the rail of the verandah, picking at the flaking paint on one of the columns. “What the hell is the matter with you? You're wandering off in the middle of the night. You’re having blackouts. You’re half asleep most of the time. You want to stay. You want to leave. Seriously, if you’ve picked up a drug habit just tell me and I’ll help.”

“What’s the matter with what?” said Athos.


	9. Chapter 9

“Have you listened to a single word I just said?” This flare of anger was new to Porthos. He’d been furious with Athos in the past, but it had always been a slow build up. Right now, Porthos was filled with a sudden desire to shake him viciously until the teeth rattled in his head.

To save himself from doing precisely that, Porthos stepped down from the porch and sat cross legged on the grass, opening himself up to the spirits and letting them drown out all the other crap that was going on. They washed over him in waves, telling him their stories of birth and death, telling him of whole lives lived without the knowledge of freedom. They sang for him and their songs of were of hope and mourning and a longed for rescue that never came. 

Locked into a heavy trance, he was aware of the others coming and going, carrying equipment into the house, driving off to collect more from the RV, but that was miniscule compared to this: the truths that he had never known, from the mouths of people who had suffered and stayed strong. Tears rolled endlessly down his face and as day progressed to evening, still he listened. 

“Go across now,” said Athos, a muted voice way off in the distance. “It’s late. He’s tired. You can leave him in peace. You can leave here in peace.”

For a while--An hour? A minute?--Porthos was entirely alone, lost elsewhere in the universe. Eventually he stretched out, rolling over in the cool night grass, the world spinning topsy turvy around him, and as he came to a rest on his back, he watched Athos trudge slowly back into the house. It was then that he knew, with certainty, what had gone wrong between them. He’d made Athos unwelcome and the man had shut him out.

“Porthos, are you back with us, lovely?” said Aramis, sitting next to him on the grass, cigarette smoke drifting out of his mouth, a glass of wine in his hand. “How bad was it?”

“Pretty awful,” admitted Porthos, but then he thought about strength and wisdom and the fact that these broken souls were finally at peace. “I’m glad I talked to them though.”

“I was worried that you were gone for good, but Athos convinced me everything was okay,” said Aramis. “He watched over you.”

Porthos was lonely and miserable, enough for his chest to ache with grief. “I’ve got to find him,” he said, stumbling to his feet.

“He’s okay, Porthos,” said Aramis, following him into the house. “Honestly, my friend. He’s fine.”

But Porthos knew that simply wasn’t true. He pushed through into the miasma, wondering whether he would ever get used to the atmosphere in here, then hoping fervently that he wouldn’t be around long enough for that to happen.

“I wish you'd waited for us to be ready,” said d’Artagnan as soon as Porthos set foot inside Belle Isle. “Which room do you want to start with?” he added enthusiastically.

“None of them,” said Porthos. “At least not tonight.” Before they meddled, he had to make sense of the ancient thing which was trying to swallow them whole. But before that he needed to put things right with Athos.

“We’ve set up all the equipment,” said d’Artagnan, nipping at his ankles.

“Great.” Porthos heaved in a calming breath, determined not to piss anyone else off this evening. "But that’s it for today. I'm shattered, mate. Do your readings. Get some baselines and we can start tomorrow." He peered into the lounge. “Now where the fuck is Athos?” he said, checking the dining room.

“Porthos, stop running around like an idiot and please listen to me," said Aramis. "You don’t need to worry. I was keeping an eye on him for you. Once you were back with us, he came in, refused a drink point blank and said he was going upstairs for a lie down. Good news eh?”

“I suppose so.” Porthos wanted to say yes, but it was so out of character that, in some ways, he was more concerned than ever. “Do you know which room he and I are staying in?” he asked.

“The second floor suite,” said Aramis, his arms spreading wide in an expansive gesture, wine making waves in the glass. “You'll love it. It’s vast.”

“I have to see him now,” Porthos said. They needed to talk. This distance between them was wrong. “Do me a favour, mate. Don’t let anyone disturb us.”

Aramis snorted with laughter. “Take my word for it, it’s very private up there. You’ll be able to screw each other to your heart’s content and no one'll hear you scream.”

From the animated way Aramis was talking, Porthos had a feeling that he’d already downed a few large sauvignons this evening to settle his nerves and soothe his stomach, and, with a curt nod of thanks, he left him to it and hurried off to find Athos.

Inside, the house seemed almost finished. There was a lot of work that needed to be completed outside, but the interior was white and bright with a sweeping Hollywood staircase that curved up to an extensive landing, a dozen cypresswood doors leading off it in all directions. It was a shame they couldn’t paint over the dreadful atmosphere, or sugarcoat that strange smell with lavender candles.

The second floor was accessed via a more conventional staircase which opened out at the top into a suite of rooms, and, looking around him, Porthos was stopped dead in his tracks. This seriously couldn’t be all theirs. The bedroom was, as Aramis had described it, vast. It was elegantly decorated with a massive bed and simple white furniture. Voluminous curtains billowed inwards, caught on a breeze that was coming from the open windows, which, like everywhere else in the house, were shuttered by screens in order to keep out the insects. There was a huge TV on the wall and a fancy coffee maker and fridge. In fact, the only thing the room was lacking was Athos.

After discovering two walk in closets and a dressing room, Porthos gave up the game of hide and seek. “Athos, where are you?” he called, a note of panic in his voice.

“In here,” came a voice from the other side of the staircase, which turned out to be the most enormous bathroom Porthos had ever seen. In the centre of the room was a sunken tub, and in that was Athos, lying back in the water with his eyes closed and a chilled out expression on his face. It was the most relaxed he’d looked since Evansville. "I thought I'd have a soak before d'Artagnan made you do your thing and commune with the beast again.”

Porthos couldn’t get undressed fast enough. “The only one I’m communing with tonight is you,” he said as he sank into the hot water, wedging himself up tight against Athos’ smaller frame. “I’m sorry. I hate fighting.”

“We haven't fought,” smiled Athos.

“Well, we haven’t talked, and I hate that more than anything,” said Porthos gruffly. “I couldn’t feel you.”

“Sometimes I can’t feel myself,” said Athos, sounding perturbed more than disturbed, but an anxious look had appeared on his face which didn’t belong there. “Things aren’t right.” 

“More blackouts?” said Porthos, a bubble of fear rising inside him, close to bursting point. It could be epilepsy, or possibly something much worse.

“No. At least I don't think so.” Athos shook his head. “I suppose that’s a good sign.” He wound himself around Porthos. “Did they leave you alone afterwards?”

Porthos loved the fact that they’d known each other for so long, they only ever needed half a conversation. “Yeah. They obeyed orders.” He kissed Athos on the mouth. “Thank you. I don’t know why I was being such a dick to you earlier.”

“Belle Isle,” said Athos in a monotone. “It has a black heart."

Porthos nodded. “There’s something definitely off about the place,” he said, “and tomorrow we need to find out what's going on.” He kissed Athos hard this time, opening him up, reconnecting. “But for now I want to see to you.” His fingers closed possessively around Athos’ cock. “I need to make up with you properly,” he said, working his hand up and down in a steady rhythm. “You know, we should get a bath like this.”

Athos bucked into his fist. “It’s bigger than our whole house.”

“Then we’ll turn our whole house into a bathroom,” Porthos chuckled, his laughter turning into a sigh of delight as Athos reached for him.

What was supposed to be a quick comfort session, turned into something much more. Lounging in the water, they brought each other off urgently, both needing to see the other come. The second time was exquisitely slow as they worked their long drawn out magic with lips, tongues and fingers and it should have been enough, but, for some reason, it wasn’t. 

As soon as they were out of the bath they fell naked into bed, burning with need. They fucked hard, rough and raw, both of them feverish in their desire for each other, the orgasms never enough, the kisses hard and biting, but never reaching the necessary pitch.

“I can’t,” said Athos in a strangled voice, his hand soaked with his own come.

Porthos was still hard inside him. “I know,” he said, licking him clean. 

They took turns to suck each other off, trying to calm the fever, but still Porthos needed more and he knew Athos was reaching a similar level of panic, even before he spoke.

“I don’t like this,” he said in a shaky voice and Porthos nodded, all too aware of what he meant.

They tried to stop, staying away from each other, clinging to the outside edges of the bed as if they’d had a row, and then meeting together in the middle of the mattress for comforting hugs and kisses. The close contact was too much and, arching up, as taut as a bow, Porthos came for the fifth time that night with Athos sighing out in desperation a moment later.

Aching and sore, they fucked in front of the huge mirror at the top of the stairs and in a flash of distant lightning the reflection distorted and then altered. Buried deep inside Athos, Porthos stilled and looked around him at walls that were drenched in blood.

“Bed,” he insisted, needing to burrow underneath the covers and hide inside Athos.

Exhausted, they stumbled back into the bedroom where they came together once again, the agitation dying down until the fuck became slow and sleepy enough for them to pass out in each other’s arms.


	10. Chapter 10

Porthos woke alone in the bed, unfulfilled and with a hard on that needed to be dealt with immediately before he spontaneously combusted over the sheets. With just a couple of rough strokes, he brought himself off into a handful of tissues and, remembering what had happened the night before, he reddened with shame. Racing to the bathroom, he flushed the evidence of his hyperactive sex drive down the toilet, wondering whether the water here was laced with Viagra. He and Athos had been on fire.

The shower was a dream, a huge walk in beast of a thing with a rain head and a million other attachments to hose down every part of the body. He spent a long time playing with the settings, the flow of the water calming his senses, and eventually arrived downstairs to find everyone gathered in the dining room, eating breakfast.

Athos smiled lazily up at him. “Morning,” he said and, reaching out an arm, he hooked Porthos in for a slow kiss hello. It was a shock to see how perfectly at ease he was in this environment, joining in with the chatter, his posture that of an utterly relaxed man. Once again, this was out of the ordinary. Athos was only ever this chilled out when they were alone together at home, lying in bed or cuddled up in front of the telly.

Answering the chorus of good mornings, Porthos buttered some toast and carried that and a bowl of fruit to the table, sitting in the space that had been left vacant for him, next to Athos. It was then he looked over at the fireplace and noticed that the large over-mantle mirror was, for some reason, turned to face the wall.

“What’s up with that?” he said, waving at it with a spoon.

“You didn’t notice the mirror in our bedroom was the same?” said Athos. “I turned the bathroom one around so that I could shave.”

Porthos shook his head. “I was in a hurry,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to miss breakfast. I didn’t eat anything all day yesterday.”

He then remembered _why_ they’d missed out on food and felt the blood rush to his face. Glancing sideways at Athos, he expected to see his prudish boyfriend in a similar state of embarrassment, but instead the man was gazing at him with a heated look of appraisal.

“Stop that,” Porthos said, leaning in close to murmur the words into his ear. “You’re making me want you all over again.”

Athos smirked at him and his eyes brightened with excitement.

“Coffee?” said Anne, pouring some into Porthos’ cup without waiting for an answer. 

“I apologise for these two,” said Aramis. “They live in a world of their own most of the time. Please tell us about the mirrors.” 

That voice sounded a little off, but as soon as Porthos looked at Aramis, he knew something was very wrong indeed. In spite of the heat, the man was shivering and ridiculously pale, sallow with sickness. He must be coming down with a bug, poor bastard. It was rotten to be ill when you were away from home.

“It happens every day, with every single mirror in the house,” Anne said. “At first I thought it was one of the decorators playing a trick on me, but when it carried on, month in, month out, I knew no one could be bothered to keep up that kind of nonsense. I installed fixed mirrors in the bathrooms but they always ended up smashed. It’s been a nightmare. This whole house is a nightmare. Maybe I should have said something yesterday, but I didn’t want to pre-warn you about it. I believe you paranormal experts like to root things out for yourselves.” She laid a hand momentarily on Athos’ wrist. It was a proprietary gesture, and one that Porthos didn’t much appreciate.

“I’m hardly what you'd call an expert,” said Athos, smiling at her. “More of a box carrier.”

“You are right though, Anne,” said d’Artagnan. “Porthos does like to do a blind reading of all the places we visit.”

Actually, it didn’t really matter that much to Porthos one way or the other, but it kept the home owners happy, and it also meant that he didn’t have to think about his psychic abilities more often than was necessary. He wasn’t a fake. He did what he did and, with Athos’ assistance, sent the dead on their way. There was no need to waste his time reading up on the places beforehand.

“What do you make of the mirrors, buddy?” continued d’Artagnan, looking across the table at him.

“I have no idea.” Porthos shrugged. “Never seen anything like it, to be honest. Maybe your ghost here has a body image problem.” All of a sudden, he was feeling totally out of sorts with the world, worried about Aramis and his mystery illness, and, at the same time, dreading what d’Artagnan might have planned for him today. Most of all, though, he hated the way Anne and Athos seemed to be falling into conversation so easily, all laughs and smiles, growing more familiar with each other as every hour passed by. He was so bloody jealous that it didn’t even help when Athos rested a hand on his thigh and began to stroke him rhythmically under cover of the table cloth.

“I’m sure you’ll fathom something out after you’ve been here a while,” said Anne, her cat’s eyes glinting as she smiled at him.

“I’m sure I will,” Porthos replied, nodding his thanks to her as she refilled his cup. “Hopefully it won’t take too long.” He turned his attention to d’Artagnan. “So, what are we doing today?”

“The slave quarters, if that's okay,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s bound to be the most active area and also the most taxing, so I think we need to investigate there while we’re all still fresh.”

Porthos didn’t feel at all fresh, but he’d agreed to do this and, for some reason, it seemed an easier proposition than trying to unravel the mysteries of Belle Isle itself. “I’d go along with that,” he said, and then he looked at his best friend who was uncommunicative at the far end of the table. “Aramis, mate, you don’t look too clever. Are you going to manage okay?”

“I’ve picked up a virus from somewhere,” said Aramis, summoning up a smile. “But I’m much better outside than I am indoors, so let’s go for it.”

After breakfast was over, they made a mass effort to clear the table and stack the dishwasher, and after the housework was done they all gathered in the lounge for a final meeting.

“That picture,” said Athos, pointing to an old painting of Belle Isle on the wall, its colours faded, age spots marring the image. “It looks different every time I see it.”

“One of the figures moves,” said Anne. “I thought it was just me. It’s good to know I’m not going crazy.”

“Another way of looking at it is that you’re not the only one going crazy.” Athos' smile was not up to its usual mediocre standards.

When Porthos stared up at the painting he saw only an unhappy face gazing down at him from an upper window. He looked away again quickly, overwhelmed by a confusing mixture of sadness and out of place eroticism.

“Is the bridge wide enough for cars, or do we have to carry the stuff over there?” asked d’Artagnan.

“I’m afraid the only way to get there is by foot,” said Anne with an apologetic shrug. “I hope you don’t have to make a swift getaway.” She shivered and then heaved in a sustaining breath, clearly spooked by the place. “Athos, can you help me with the mirrors before you go?”

“Of course,” he said, and Porthos watched for a while as they worked, heads together and deep in conversation once again. What did they find to talk about, he wondered. Idle chit chat was never one of Athos’ greatest skills.

“You don’t have to worry,” said Aramis, putting on an extra sweater and coming to stand next to him. “He’s crazy about you. I’ve never seen anyone so much in love. The way he looked after you last night when you were outside on the lawn made me quite jealous. I hope one day I find someone who cares about me that much.”

Porthos was immensely grateful to hear this. “He’s struggling with something,” he said in an undertone. “But neither of us can work out what the problem is.”

“I think we’re all struggling at the moment,” said Aramis wearily. “Frankly, I’ve had enough of this supernatural crap and I can’t wait to go home.”

“Me too, mate,” said Porthos, pulling him in for a quick hug. “Hopefully you’ll feel better soon and that’ll cheer you up.” This wasn’t like Aramis at all. Even when he was sick, he was always upbeat and gregarious. The man hadn’t even attempted to flirt with Anne de Winter, a woman who seemed very much his type. Although perhaps that was because Athos was monopolising her most of the time. 

“D’Artagnan,” shouted Constance from the hall. “Have you actually been through this video footage from last night?” 

“Yes. Why?” The kid rolled his eyes in irritation, and if Constance had seen that look she would have thumped him. “I went over it with a fine tooth comb first thing this morning, before anyone else was up.”

“Well, I think you missed something pretty important,” she said and everyone in the lounge rushed out to join her at the control desk -- a pair of long tables on which all the monitoring equipment had been set up in the hallway.

“Did you check the audio track for it?” asked Constance, looking up at d’Artagnan.

“No,” he replied. “I gave up doing that a couple of months ago. There was never anything of significance on them.”

“Well, there is this time.” Constance unplugged the headphone jack. “I heard something in the background when I was going through the raw footage, so I isolated certain frequencies and came up with this.” 

She turned up the volume and Porthos shuddered. It was a low resonant chanting: no gaps, no pauses, just a drone of voices, or maybe just one voice, echoing and deep. It was eerie. Horrible. “What is it saying?” he said. “I can’t make it out. It’s not English or French, for certain.”

“Nor Spanish or Italian,” said Aramis. “And it doesn’t sound like any of the African languages that I’ve heard.”

“It’s Creole,” said Athos. “Though don’t ask me what it means because I never bothered to learn any.”

“How do you know?” asked d’Artagnan, looking at him curiously.

“No idea,” said Athos. “Holidays, I suppose.”

“He’s right. It is Creole. They still speak it around here in some parts,” said Anne. “We need to do the first floor now,” she said to Athos. “I warn you, there are an awful lot of heavy mirrors in the bedrooms.”

Watched the woman leading Athos up the stairs, Porthos thought back to the out of control sex they’d had last night and his skin crawled with fear. “Don’t be too long,“ he called. “We need to set things up for today.” He had to get Athos away from here, from her. It was important. There was a static between them that made him itch.


	11. Chapter 11

D'Artagnan was in a state of excitement, listening to the audio track over and over again. “It’s constant,” he said, checking it out hour by hour. “Like one of those looped feeds NASA sends into space. This is incredible. You're a bloody genius, Constance. I don’t know if it’s evidence of the supernatural, but it’s evidence of something.”

“Technically, there could be a recording being transmitted from somewhere, so it won’t be classed as paranormal,” said Constance. “But, that said, it’s really weird. Maybe that’s why you’re feeling so sick, Aramis. Ultra low frequencies affect some people badly.”

“Hardly ULF if we can all hear it, Constance, but good try,” drawled Athos as he returned from mirror duties. “I suppose there could be some hidden within it. Check the dedicated audio feeds.”

"I have," said the woman with barely concealed irritation.

Porthos couldn't give a shit about frequencies and looked up in delight, happy to hear Athos sounding more like himself. “All finished?” he asked, slipping an arm around the man’s waist.

“Yes.” Athos leaned in closer to speak to him, his voice less than a whisper, soft against Porthos’ ear. “Our bedroom still reeks of last night’s sex. I think she was utterly disgusted.”

As Porthos turned his head to reply, Athos clasped the back of his neck and pulled him closer for a kiss that was laden with desire. His free hand slid downwards and worked its way inside Porthos’ cargoes and pants to cup at his bare arse. He'd never normally be this forward in public.

Blood let loose and out on the rampage, Porthos went to shove Athos up against the wall and was surprised by a sudden twist which had him pushed back into submission, and as Athos took his mouth with hard dirty kisses he could do nothing else but hook his leg around the man and pull him closer.

“Fucking hell, could you two please stop that and listen to what we have planned,” said a voice from the distance. D'Artagnan’s most likely, though Porthos hadn’t been paying enough attention to know for sure.

“Sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He pushed Athos away, checking downwards to make sure his t-shirt was long enough to hide his erection. Loose trousers were never great in this situation. His desire then turned to annoyance. What was that sudden animal display really about? Was Athos so turned on by Anne de Winter that he was happy to use Porthos as a means of fucking away his not so secret attraction for the woman?

As they carried boxes of equipment across the lawn in the direction of the small footbridge, Porthos’ anger began to burn, a bad idea when he needed to be level headed and ultra cautious. Putting the crate of cables down on the grass, he stopped Athos with an arm, needing to have it out with him.

“If that kiss just now had anything at all to do with Mrs de Winter, then I’m going to find it bloody hard to forgive you,” he growled.

“She couldn’t be further from my thoughts,” said Athos, dumping his own box of gear on the ground and turning to face Porthos. “You’re all I think about, every minute of the day.” He reached out to caress Porthos’ face and stroked the pad of a thumb across his beard, letting come to rest against his lips. “You’re so beautiful,” he said in wonder. “Do you honestly not know how much I love you?”

Porthos believed him. “I do,” he said softly. There was no room for doubt when the truth was right here in front of his eyes. “I love you too.” He should have listened to Aramis. More than that, he should have trusted his own instincts. It didn’t matter how much Anne de Winter fancied Athos. Athos belonged to him.

“Now put your guard up and make sure it stays there,” said Athos, his expression changing into one of concern. “You know that I love you, that I’ll always love you, so stop being an arse and concentrate on yourself. Stay safe and be careful.”

“I will.” Porthos relaxed, holding out his arms. “But first, and most importantly, come here and show me how much you love me.”

They interlocked, mouths connecting for softly sucking kisses that became more urgent than ever. Humming with need, Porthos shoved against him, taking comfort from the hardness, the heat, the strength that surrounded him. 

“Stop screwing around, please guys,” said d’Artagnan as he passed by on his second run. “This is an important day for all of us.”

“Give them a break, d'Artagnan,” grinned Aramis, slapping him on the back. “They need a moment together before hell breaks loose.”

Grateful to Aramis for understanding, Porthos let the kisses die down, but wasn’t quite ready to give up the hug. “I’m scared,” he muttered, burying his face in Athos' messy hair. He could hear the creak of that hanged body swinging in the non existent breeze behind him. “I’m fucking terrified, to be honest.”

“I know, baby, but I’ll be there with you when you’re doing your thing” said Athos. “Come on.” He geed Porthos up with one of his rare smiles. ”If we don’t get moving soon, they’ll accuse us of being complete shirkers.”

Porthos picked up his box of equipment and strolled towards the bridge, bathed in contentment from the endearment Athos had just used. He should have hated it. He was a strapping six foot four black guy. He shouldn’t be getting all mushy over being someone’s baby.

“Athos,” he said, melting a little bit more after receiving another of those smiles. “We will be all right?”

“We’ll be fine.” Athos leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. “You look after me and I’ll look after you, just like always.”

The footbridge turned out to be a rickety planked construction with a pair of rusted handrails. It was about as safe as the swing seat, but a lot less dangerous than the mission they were about to embark on.

Porthos had always wondered about the strange name of the house, but standing on the small crossing, he realised now that the grounds were almost entirely surrounded by a narrow creek. Perhaps, at one time, the place was fully enclosed by water: a beautiful island. Over to the right was a pond and even from this distance he could sense a whole lot of trouble coming from that direction. He’d keep that titbit of information to himself. They had enough to investigate already, without him adding to the list.

“I still haven’t seen any alligators,” said Athos. “I think they make up stories to scare the children.”

“Idiot. I know you’re just trying to make me feel better about today,” Porthos laughed, an arm draped around Athos’ shoulders. “Stay close by, is all you need to do. I hate it when I can’t feel you next to me.”

“I will,” said Athos. “I know.”

“Can we run away?” said Porthos.

“Is it catfish time?” said Athos. He looked in the direction of the pond. “That looks like a good place for…” Both his words and his smile died instantly.

“No fishing allowed,” interrupted Aramis, backtracking to meet them. “It’s too late to escape. D’Artagnan and Constance are far too excited. They’ll hunt you down for sure.”

“You seem a lot better,” said Porthos, turning to look at his friend, surprised by the sudden improvement.

“I told you, the fresh air works wonders, “ said Aramis. “Now, come on, my lovelies. Stop dawdling and let’s go find some ghosts.”

Porthos closed his eyes for a moment, preparing his defences and armouring himself for what was about to come. 

“It’s not so much a case of finding the ghosts,” he said as he looked through the tunnel of trees into a clearing which was home to a dozen or so broken down shacks. A mass of greyed out bodies filled the place. There was so much sadness and anger and pain contained here that the tears were already spilling down Porthos’ cheeks. He reached blindly for Athos’ hand, and let out a sob of relief when Aramis took his other.

They led him through the forest and into one of the shacks, a place that was dank and mouldy from age and neglect, but far sweeter smelling than Belle Isle could ever hope to be, even with its mask of scented candles and daily fresh flowers. Breathing in deeply, Porthos looked around him at the melange of figures and, cross legged, he sat on the floor amongst them. “Let me help you,” he said and then, with care and with tenderness, he opened himself up to the dead.

The sound came as a warning: a chorused hum of insects that was strange to his ears. This wasn’t here and it wasn’t now. He was running through the trees, his brothers beside him, all four of them terrified, but smart enough to make sure that they led the enemy away from their village. 

Hunted down and trapped like an animal, he was taken from his home and his family. Stripped of his dignity, he was brought to this wretched place, full of disease and dirt, and then beaten until he would work for them. Beaten until he was raw. Worked until his bleeding fingers were worn to the bone. He knew of nothing here but cold, cruelty, misery. He broke his heart and prayed for home. He was anger. He was fury. He was rage.

It was the sound of pain that brought Porthos back. A sound that he recognised, and he opened his eyes to see Athos crouched on the dirt floor, hunched over and crying out in agony. 

“No,” he cried, “stop this now.” But they couldn't understand him because they were anger. They were fury. They were rage.

Athos slumped sideways, curled into a protective ball and Porthos sobbed when he could no longer feel him at all.

It began again. Packed onto huge ships, beginning journeys that they did not understand. Journeys that lasted for seasons. Ill and sick, they arrived. Women, fat with babies, squatting to deliver them where they stood, biting through membrane and putting their children to feed from undernourished breasts. So frightened they were. Howling and crying. Where were they? Why would no one come to save them? _Help us. Please._

“I can hear you,” Porthos said in breaths more than words. He arched his back and fought hard to stay with them. Twisted himself into the ground and fought again. “I can help.”

There was no honour. No dignity. Thrown into a hole when dead. No mourning. No blessings. No afterlife.

“You can have your peace now,” he promised.

He listened to their songs and their prayers, spoken to him in languages that he didn’t know, and yet the mourning made perfect sense to him. Athos was gone and he was alone. Alone with the words and the songs and the grief.

Arms clamped around him and he was lifted. He fought again, but he was tired. Tired enough to sleep forever.


	12. Chapter 12

He came back to the world as if he were newborn, choking and trying to bring up everything rotten inside him. Amniotic fluid, warm and sweet. Canal water, brackish with rust. Swamp water, a dense soup of mud and decay.

“That’s it now, Porthos. Throw it all up.” 

A hand rubbed reassuringly across his back as he vomited into the bowl. 

“Aramis, what happened?” he asked in a scratchy voice when there was nothing left inside him to come out.

“I don’t know.” 

The bowl was removed and a wet flannel wiped him clean.

“Athos is dead.” Porthos’ heart was broken, his spirit was gone. “I can’t feel him.”

“Open your eyes, Porthos. Athos is here beside you in bed. He’s fast asleep.”

He looked to his left and it was exactly as Aramis had said. Athos was lying next to him, snoring quietly, his chest rising and falling in a perfect rhythm. “Why can’t I feel him?” He looked at Aramis. “Did he die? Did I?”

“No, but I thought you were going to.” Tears rolled down Aramis’ cheeks. “It was terrifying. You were fitting, I think. We couldn’t bring you around.” Aramis scrubbed angrily at his face. “We had to get Athos out of there, or they would have killed him. We tried to get you out afterwards, but that’s when the fits started.”

“I remember,” said Porthos. It wasn’t a seizure. He had to stay to let them mourn their dead. He reached out for Athos mentally and physically. “Did they hurt him badly?”

“Cuts and bruises,” said Aramis. “D’Artagnan’s photographed everything, but it’s only proof to us.”

“I need to see,” said Porthos, sitting up in the bed.

“Let him sleep,” said Aramis.

“I need to see,” repeated Porthos, stroking a hand through Athos’ tangled hair and then pulling back the covers, just enough check him over. It was a shock. His body was covered in scratches and gouges, livid bruising standing out against the pale skin. “He’s not hurt?”

“Not at all, as far as we can tell, but it’s the worst case of psychic injury I’ve ever seen documented.”

“Oh, fuck,” said Porthos, staring at Athos’ chest as letters appeared like carvings, cutting into the skin. “Can you see this?”

“Yes,” muttered Aramis. “But I wish I couldn’t.” He shivered and pulled his jacket tightly around him. “Leave this place,” he read as the words formed then blistered and disappeared. “I’d go along with that message. Your unconscious boyfriend appears to have become an Etch A Sketch for the spirit world.”

“This isn’t a bloody joke,” said Porthos, shaking from upset. He was frightened out of his mind. He’d lived through a thousand horrendous memories. He’d couldn’t _feel_ Athos.

“I know. I’m sorry,” said Aramis, reaching for his hand. “Sod d’Artagnan. Can we please go home now?”

“As soon as he wakes up we’re out of here,” said Porthos and he was about to pull the covers back over Athos when he saw the bruises begin to fade and the raw skin at the edge of the wounds knit itself together.

“This is altogether too weird for me,” said Aramis. “I prefer the other kind of hauntings where I can never tell when anything’s happening. I’m going to go pack my suitcase.”

“Don’t,” said d’Artagnan from the doorway. “Please. We have to investigate the house before we go.”

“I’m afraid we didn’t get anything at all from the slave quarters,” explained Constance.

“You know what,” said Porthos, glaring at the youngest members of the team. “I got something from there, and so did he.” He waved a hand at Athos who was still sleeping like a baby. “Aramis is shit scared and gets sick every time he walks inside this place. Someone has decided to write messages to us, using Athos as a slate. We’ve all had enough.” He squeezed Athos’ hand and was reassured when fingers tightened against his in response. “Face it, you are never going to record evidence of the afterlife. It’s not happening.”

“Why is it so important to you d’Artagnan?” said Aramis gently.

“I’ll tell you why.” The young man slouched against the wall, staring down at his feet. “When I was seventeen my dad was murdered by some junkie for the few quid that was in his wallet. I never got to say goodbye. He was dead by the time he got to the hospital. I don’t even know where he was when he died.” He looked defiantly around at everyone. “I don’t have faith and I can’t see ghosts, but I need something to believe in. I need this.”

“Isn’t it enough for me to tell you that there is life after death?” asked Porthos.

“I wish it was.” D’Artagnan shook his head. “Please, Porthos. This house is special. I know it is. We’ve recorded sound phenomena. We have photographs of psychic wounding. I know there’s loads more to discover. Stay and help me find it. Please.”

At the mention of Athos’ injuries, Porthos automatically looked over at a shoulder poking out of the quilt which, just a few minutes ago, had been badly bruised. He was stunned to see that was now completely healed, and pulled back the covers again to find that Athos was now damage free, his skin unblemished.

“That’s...” said Aramis, coming to a halt. “I have no idea what that is, actually. Remarkable, I suppose.” 

Porthos reined in his emotions and focused on the facts. He wanted to help d’Artagnan, he really did, but this was dangerous. On the other hand, letting the kid down, especially now he’d bared his soul to them, would be a callous thing to do. Going home was the sensible option for certain, but Belle Isle was a magnet, both compelling and repulsive, and he had to admit there was something fascinating about the mystery that surrounded it. 

Unguarded, d’Artagnan looked like a hurt child and it was this that made up Porthos’ mind. “If we’re all in agreement then I’ll stay,” he said gruffly. “But just one veto means we’re on the next plane home. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” said d’Artagnan with a wan smile, accepting Constance’s offer of a cup of tea with a quick nod.

“You’re tired,” said Aramis, once the other two had left the bedroom. “Curl up with the grump and have a nap.”

“Thanks, mate. I’ll do that.” Porthos jumped at the chance, climbing into bed and spooning up against Athos’ warm body, tangling their fingers together and listening intently to the steady th-thud of his heart.

An hour of twisting and turning later, he gave up on the idea of sleep. Rather than relaxing, being in bed with Athos was making him fractious. He supposed he’d get used to the disconnection in time but, right now, it felt as if he were lying next to a living, breathing dead man. Fretful and unhappy, Porthos climbed out, careful not to disturb Athos, then went to the bathroom for a quick shower. 

When he came back Athos was still out for the count. “Is anyone in there?” he asked, once he’d finished getting dressed, landing a smacker of a kiss on the man’s forehead to punctuate his words.

Athos opened sleepy eyes, smiled up him and then promptly closed them again.

“I guess that’s a no,” said Porthos with a shrug.


	13. Chapter 13

With four of them agreeing to the idea of staying, it was now a waiting game to see what Athos would choose to do when he finally woke up. It was impossible to guess which way the man would decide. He’d blown hot and cold over this place so many times in the last few days that it was a straight fifty fifty. 

A week ago Porthos would have known for certain, but now that the bond between them had been all but severed, he hadn’t got a clue. If only he’d realised, before it was too late, how strong their attachment was and how much it had meant to them both, then he’d have guarded it with his life.

“How is Athos?” asked Anne. “Should I take him anything up?”

“He’s asleep,” said Porthos curtly. _He’s mine_. “Best leave him be.” He’d prefer it if she’d permanently leave him be. She was far too domestic around him.

The others were listening again to that strange chanting and it was starting to get on Porthos’ nerves. “If it’s in Creole then surely it’s got to be Voodoo,” he said as he looked around at the paintings hanging on the walls, all of them organic and modern, apart from the one of Belle Isle that was in the lounge.

“I suppose so,” said Anne. “They did used to practice it around here, but it sounds so ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous or not, this was recorded from inside your house,” said Aramis. “The mirrors turn themselves around, the pictures move and the grounds are full of dead slaves.”

“You never did tell us why you can’t sleep,” said Porthos. “It might be important.”

“I feel as if someone’s watching me all the time,” said Anne. “I hate it.” She paused for a moment. “I feel something tightening around my neck, choking the life out of me.”

“Sounds terrifying,” said Constance.

Anne nodded. “It is.”

Porthos tried to rustle up sympathy and failed. “Tell us what you know about Voodoo,” he said and, once they’d escaped his mouth, the words sounded aggressive, far too much like an interrogation. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Anne, or that he doubted her in any way. He simply didn’t like her and he had a strong feeling it was mutual.

“Virtually nothing,” said Anne, her eyes glinting angrily in response to his rude manner. “I’m from Surrey. Voodoo isn’t big in the home counties.” She paused for a moment. “But there is something here that might be connected. I’d forgotten all about it until now.” Standing up, she walked over to the bureau in the corner of the room and opening a drawer, she took out a tiny sackcloth bag with a faded symbol painted onto the hessian. It was blackened by age and tied with a length of fibrous plant. “The builders found this during the first phase of renovations. They told me to take it to Charon, who works on the air boats, but I never did get around to it.”

She handed it to Aramis, who had a quick look and then passed it around the room. When it finally reached Porthos he was wary of touching it, wondering what new nightmares it might conjure. It seemed safe enough, however, and, unfastening the binding, he opened it to reveal some small animal bones, ash and seeds.

“If this is Voodoo then it doesn’t seem too threatening,” he said with a grin. 

“It could easily be a charm to keep the house safe,” said d’Artagnan. “People from every culture do that.”

“Shoes,” said Porthos.

“Pardon?” Aramis grinned. “Are you having a funny turn again, my friend?”

Porthos frowned at him. “People in Britain used to hide shoes in the walls for good luck. Not that much different from squirrel bones really.”

“Less comfortable to walk around in,” said Aramis. “Although I suppose you could try tying two squirrels to your feet and see how you get on.”

“Hilarious, mate.” Porthos smirked at him. “Feeling better again, I take it.”

“I am indeed,” said Aramis. “As it turns out, there was no mumbo jumbo going on; it was just a plain, old fashioned flu bug.”

“So, we think that the bag of bones might be a charm,” said d’Artagnan, getting back onto topic. “But what about the chanting?”

“Why don’t I give Charon a call and see if he can pay us a visit tomorrow. He might be able to shed some light on some of this,” said Anne.

“Good idea,” said Aramis. “I think we can all happily admit that we’re way out of our depth.”

“Way out of depth regarding what?” said a refined voice from the doorway.

Porthos smiled with delight to see Athos back in the land of the living, and immediately got up to greet him. 

“Hello, stranger,” he said, resting a hand against his cheek and leaning in for a kiss. The psychic attack had caused the man no harm. In fact his long beauty sleep appeared to have done him a power of good, and he looked well rested and happy. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

“I missed having you in bed with me,” said Athos. 

Walking over to the fireplace, he stroked a palm along the smooth cypress wood mantle and then threw himself into a corner of the couch, resting his feet up on the coffee table, casual and relaxed. Smiling again at Porthos, he held out an arm, encouraging him to come and sit next to him. “What exactly are we out of our depth about?” he repeated.

“Voodoo,” said d’Artagnan. “Unless you happen to be an expert on the subject.”

The niggling between them was familiar and Porthos relaxed into Athos’ side, trying to get the grip of their fingers right as they held hands.

Athos grinned. “I’m an expert on a lot of things, d’Artagnan, but Voodoo and Hoodoo do not number amongst them.”

“Hoodoo?” said d’Artagnan. “I thought they were different words for the same thing.”

Athos shook his head. “Voodoo is a religion and Hoodoo is folk magic.”

“How do you know?” said Constance, looking at him in surprise.

“I read books,” said Athos dismissively and then he smirked. “It might also have been mentioned on an episode of Supernatural.”

The room erupted into laughter and, for the first time in ages, Porthos guffawed, scooching in closer to his man. “I love you,” he murmured.

Athos turned to look at him. “And I love you,” he said loud and clear and then he kissed Porthos firmly on the mouth. “It feels like a lifetime since I’ve done that.”

“You’ve been asleep for a lifetime,” said Porthos, pressing a hand against his chest to feel the comforting beat of his heart.

“Surely not.” Athos captured that hand and kissed the tip of each finger. “I feel ready for bed right now.”

“Monsieur Charon is very interested,” said Anne from the doorway. Porthos could feel the full effect of her piercing green eyes. “Several generations of his family were Voodoo practitioners. He’s also heard a lot of stories about Belle Isle, apparently his grandmother used to work here, so he’s coming by tomorrow morning.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be Hoodoo then, or he will be disappointed,” said Aramis with a grin.

“It’s not,” said Athos, letting go of Porthos’ hand and curling an arm around his shoulder. “That figure in the painting is one of the Voodoo Loa.”

At first Porthos couldn’t see anything at all, but then, after staring at it for a while, the mist began to clear and he picked out the form of an old man, leaning on a crutch and smoking a pipe. Fuck! He shivered and Athos pulled him in tight against his side.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Porthos didn’t know what he was. Not quite terrified, but close enough to it. “I’m apprehensive more than anything, I think.”

Athos reached across and stroked his thigh. “No need to be. You and me, remember?”

“We didn’t reckon on being up against the entire pantheon of Voodoo gods though, did we?” Porthos looked up, aware that someone was standing close by.

“Seeing as the sun’s well past the yard arm and the weather is dreadfully hot, I mixed us mint juleps,” said Anne offering around the tray and placing a full jug on the table.

“My favourite,” said Athos.

“How would you know?” said Porthos. He’d never even heard of them.

“If a drink contains bourbon and ice then it’s my favourite,” said Athos. “Regardless of any other ingredients.” He kissed Porthos on the lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t overindulge.”

“I’d like to see you overindulge,” said Anne, smiling at him. “I’m sure you’re a riot.”

With a sudden clatter, the long row of asymmetrical candles tumbled off the mantelpiece in a domino effect, and everyone looked around to see what might have caused it. There was a strong breeze outside, as if a distant tide had turned, and the windows _were_ wide open, but that was unlikely to knock over such solid pillars.

“What the fuck?” said Aramis. “Which one of you is practicing telekinesis?” He raised an eyebrow at Porthos. “You’re the obvious candi….” 

His sentence ran out of steam when, in front of everyone’s eyes, the mirror darkened to a smoky black and words appeared on the glass, scrawled by an invisible finger. _Leave this place now._

“Is anybody there? Knock once for yes and twice for no,” said Aramis in a bright and breezy voice that wasn’t fooling anyone. 

As one, they jumped at the loud bang and then erupted into laughter when d’Artagnan sheepishly put his hand up. “Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t resist.”

“Behave yourself, d’Artagnan. I’m supposed to be the joker in the pack,” said Aramis. “So what do we think then?” He pointed to the mirror. “It’s the second time we’ve been told that. Someone’s getting quite insistent.”

“Third time actually,” said Porthos and when everyone stared at him he felt obliged to continue. “She’s the only spirit I’ve ever seen in Belle Isle, and she only stuck around long enough to tell me to get lost.”

“And the second time?” asked d’Artagnan.

“It was carved into Athos’ belly,” said Aramis. "And then it vanished before our eyes. Some seriously spooky stuff is going on here."

Athos’ eyes opened wide. “I don’t think so,” he said, running a nervous hand over his stomach. “I’m certain I’d remember if something as gruesome as that had happened to me.”

“You were asleep,” said Porthos with a smile and felt compelled to kiss him, the flavour of the cocktail reminding him of their last night in Evansville. They should have gone home then, but they’d made their bed and so they had to lie in it. Then again, maybe not.

“Athos,“ he said. “I don’t suppose you remember much of what went on in the slave quarters, do you?”

“A little,” Athos said. “Nothing too lucid.” He laughed awkwardly. “Just an awful lot of hate.”

“It was bad,” said Porthos. “Aramis and d’Artagnan had to pull us both out of there. Anyway, after everything that happened, I agreed to carry on with the investigation for d’Artagnan’s sake, but only if we all said yes to it. We’re still waiting for your vote. We can leave first thing in the morning if that’s what you’d prefer.”

He worded it carefully, wanting the answer to be _home_ , but Athos looked utterly devastated at the idea and, to Porthos’ dismay, his eyes went straight to Anne.

“You can’t possibly run out on me now.” She laughed merrily. “I’m cooking gumbo tomorrow and you can’t leave without tasting it.”

Porthos could happily walk away without ever tasting her gumbo, and he harboured a forlorn hope that Athos felt the same way, however unlikely it might seem. He looked at the ghost writing on the mirror, still on view, and prayed hard that Athos would use his power of veto.

“We’ll stay,” said Athos and Porthos felt utterly let down by him.

“Of course you will,” said Anne, topping up his drink. “Now come and help me set the table.


	14. Chapter 14

Porthos rarely remembered feeling so angry. The last time it had happened was two years ago when Athos had gone out for a takeaway and decided not to bother coming home. He’d ended up on an eight hour long binge that resulted in a visit to A&E, after he’d smashed his head open on a kerb stone. Scared out of his wits for most of the night, Porthos had brought him back from the hospital and come close to hating him, with very good reason.

Right now, he had little cause to feel this way, and yet he was more pissed off than he had ever been in his whole life. It didn’t make sense. Apart from when Athos was setting the places on the dining table, he’d been next to him, attentive and loving, all evening. He’d lavished Porthos with kisses. He’d rarely taken either his eyes, or his hands off him and he’d talked to him through the entirety of dinner, only acknowledging Anne out of politeness. In addition to this, he’d kept his drinking completely under control, having just two cocktails and one small glass of wine all day.

It was the link between Athos and Anne that had turned Porthos from a rational man into a furious one, strung out on a high wire of jealousy. Just occasionally, Athos looked to her, seeking her out, and, now that they’d lost their own connection, Porthos had a gnawing feeling that it was only a matter of time before Athos would move from his bed to Anne’s. He hurt. He ached. He was lonely.

Unusually tonight, the weather was sticky enough to be getting to him, and he lay on his belly, head resting on his hands, weighed down from anger and misery. He’d had a shower to cool himself off just five minutes ago, but it had only succeeded in making him hotter and even more aware of the bloody humidity.

“You’re so beautiful,” said Athos, padding naked back from the bathroom. Porthos opened his eyes enough to see pale freckled skin, dripping with water. 

Without fail, that voice was a spell that conjured up arousal from out of nowhere, but tonight the build up of anger had made Porthos immune to it. 

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” Athos said. “I can’t believe you’re mine.” Climbing astride Porthos, he sprawled across him. “Every.” He sucked a bruise onto his shoulder. “Single.” And another. “Inch.” 

The final bite was hard and Porthos winced, turning just enough to push Athos away from him. “I’m hot and that hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” said Athos remorsefully and then there was the sound of a bottle cap loosening. 

Porthos gritted his teeth. What else would his alcoholic boyfriend reach for, thirty seconds into a fight? The answer turned out to be something unexpected.

“This might help with the heat. Aramis told me it works wonders,” Athos said as he straddled Porthos again, this time being careful to keep clear of his body. 

Porthos felt nothing but a squeeze of thighs and the icy glide of oiled hands. He wanted to complain. He wanted to fixate on his jealousy and tell Athos to get lost, but this was amazing: the pressure working away at the tension in his muscles, that mint cool rub chilling his skin to zero. His bad mood vanished away with the vapour from the menthol and, stretching out, he let loose a long repressed sigh, wriggling from side to side and grinding his cock against the sheets.

Relaxed to the point of sleep, Porthos was floating close to Heaven when something warm and wet contrasted beautifully with his ice cold skin. His groan turned to an undulating moan of pleasure as Athos spread him and licked up the cleft of his bum, working circles around his hole until Porthos was bucking and pushing back into him.

They hadn’t done anything close to this before. He’d never been so intimate with Athos, opening him up and subtracting every part of him, until nothing remained but sex. He’d never even let Athos touch him here. Constrained by his machismo, he’d been too nervous, ashamed perhaps, but this... Had he known. “Oh,” he cried, his face buried into the pillow, hiding the flutter of embarrassment that remained. 

Athos spread him further, licking fully into him. His tongue delved deep, wet and hot, bringing with it the coolness of oil that turned Porthos’ senses wild until he was crying out for more. He begged shamefully as Athos sucked at him, his thumbs stroking the crease of his thighs, fingers teasing at his balls until Porthos was insane with ecstasy.

“That’s it. That’s my beautiful man,” Athos murmured as he slid a slick, cold finger inside, crooked it just once and Porthos came into the sheets.

~*~

He woke suddenly from a dream, stumbled to the bathroom for a piss and then came back to bed, so overwrought with longing that he was compelled to wake Athos.

“Again,” was all he could say, lying on his back this time, the moon fat and warm outside the window, showing him just enough of what was about to happen.

Athos pushed at Porthos’ legs until they were doubled and spread, resting against the flanks of his belly with the rest of him exposed. He was perfectly vulnerable like this, beautifully so, his cock, still crusted with a residue of its own semen, leaking a clear river against his skin.

Crouched in the bed, Athos bent his head and licked deep into him, tongue thrusting and circling, wet and sinuous, until Porthos was holding his knees and spreading his legs further, eager for more.

Athos knelt up, limned by moonlight, and Porthos watched as he wet his fingers with oil, running them over Porthos’ thighs, hips, balls.

“Inside me,” he begged and Athos smiled, unrecognisable for a moment.

Porthos wasn't aware of anything the first time. It was a hot, cold fusion and he must have blacked out afterwards. He was aware of everything now, and as that fingertip eased into him, he opened to the intrusion and then contracted around it, drawing Athos inside him. He swelled and gasped at an electric new sensation, looking down and expecting to see his belly flooded with semen. It felt like orgasm. There were two fingers inside him now, and then there were three, and when Athos bent his head and sucked hard at his aching cock, Porthos cried out for him in climax.

~*~

As the sun came up, Porthos dreamt again and then woke, his body tired and aching, but heavy with new found needs. He pushed the covers back and sucked Athos to hardness, tasting the remnants of sperm.

“I came over you when you were asleep,” said Athos, his eyes full of anxiety. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that."

Porthos lay on his back and traced the opaque lines that were streaked across his belly with a fingertip. They flaked at his touch. “Yes, you should,” he said simply.

Athos still looked serious. “I marked you.”

“Mark the rest of me now,” said Porthos, drawing his legs up high.

Athos opened him with fingers, spitting into him then tonguing him wetter. Sitting back on his haunches he drizzled oil into him and over his own cock, then, rearing up, he took him inch by inch until Porthos was gasping and aching, hurting in all the right ways. It stung as he was stretched to his limit. The burn and the icy cold were too much and he had to urge Athos on, or he would pass out again, fingernails clawing gouges into his chest until they were fucking together, rutting like animals, snarling and nipping at each other’s skin. The sweat stung his eyes, he thrashed on the bed and as Athos shuddered, Porthos gripped his own cock and pulled himself off, needing to drench Athos in come, as Athos was filling him.

“I think Aramis was right,” said Athos as he sank exhausted into Porthos. “I think we must be sex crazed.”

“It’s black magic,” said Porthos. “It’s got to be.”

Athos braced himself on an elbow. “Would it bother you if it was?”

Porthos shook his head. “Not as long as it keeps happening.”


	15. Chapter 15

Emboldened and aroused, Porthos knelt, letting the water rain down on him as he tongued Athos open. Without the link, they were still beautiful together and they were still in love, more than ever it seemed. Standing now, he pushed Athos against the wall and fucked into him from behind, but it wasn't enough. Needing to see his eyes, he pulled out, turning Athos and lifting him into his arms then sliding his cock back inside. This too was new, and with Athos clinging to him, limbs hooked around his body, they made love rather than fucked, pressed up against the cool tiles.

They were in there a long time, every surface of the bathroom was steamed up, and as the semen washed away down the plug hole Porthos came back to his senses and looked around him, not best pleased with what he saw. 

_Leave this place now or you will die_ was scrawled across the misted glass of the cubicle door.

“Do you think someone’s angry because we’ve used all the hot water?” smirked Athos.

Porthos tried to summon a grin, but he didn’t like the way the ante was being upped all the damn time. “Is it a threat, or a warning, d’you think?”

“I have no idea, but it’s certainly not Voodoo,” said Athos, exiting the cubicle and holding out a towel.

Porthos let himself be wrapped up and dried off, and the vigorous rubbing had him tingling all over. “I want sex again,” he admitted as if it were a shameful secret. “I’ve only just come and I want more.”

“It’s not just you,” said Athos, shoving himself against Porthos’ thigh. “I need you.”

“This is crazy. We can’t fuck all day,” laughed Porthos, pulling himself together and walking over to the wash basin, turning the mirror to face forwards and clearing its surface with the palm of a hand. “I’m sore enough from last night.”

Athos rubbed up against him, staring at him from the other side of the glass. “Let me kiss you better,” he said, dropping to his knees.

~*~

Shaken and overwhelmed by his complete lack of self control, Porthos sat quietly, Athos by his side, listening to the others dissect the data from last night.

“The chanting seems more distinct,” said Constance. “It’s also louder in certain areas of the house."

Porthos must have looked as worried as he felt from hearing this piece of information, because Aramis laughed. “Don’t worry, Porth. We wouldn’t dare record what goes on in your bedroom. I think we all have a pretty good idea of what we’d be listening to. You two would drown out all the Voodoo and Hoodoo in the world.”

Their friends might have an idea of what they would hear, but not how often they’d be hearing it. They’d had sex five times since going to bed last night, and Porthos was feeling decidedly drained. Athos, on the other hand, was looking at him the way a starving man would gaze at a feast. “You can’t be up for more,” murmured Porthos.

Athos took hold of his hand and pulled it towards him into his lap until his palm was resting over a tell tale bulge of excitement. “Can’t I?”

“You’re totally out of control,” whispered Porthos, aware that his own body was responding eagerly to the stimulus.

There was a hiss of annoyance from across the room and Porthos looked up to see Anne staring at them.

“Athos, help me in the kitchen,” she demanded. “We need some aperitifs making.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he snapped, all of him focused on Porthos, and immediately the tension ratcheted upwards by several notches.

“I’ll help,” said Constance and as the two women left the room, the atmosphere lightened and there was a palpable sense of relief.

In the space of a day, Athos and Anne had gone from being cosy and domestic to actually having a domestic. “What was that about?” Porthos said in an undertone. “You’re usually only too happy to help her out.”

“She annoys me,” said Athos. “She’s interrupting me when I’m thinking about all the filthy things I want to do to you. Mixing drinks would be a mood killer.” He twisted around and leaned in to kiss Porthos, deep and slow as if there was no one in the room but them.

“Meanwhile the rest of us are thinking about the problem at hand.”

Porthos pushed Athos away from him, his cheeks burning, to find that Aramis was now perched on the coffee table, staring at them. 

“What is up with you two today?” he continued, his head cocked to one side.

“Nothing that a good fuck wouldn’t cure,” grinned Athos. “So bugger off and leave us to it.” He licked a stripe of saliva up Porthos’ neck and sucked at that pulse point beneath Porthos’ ear.

Porthos shoved him away, ashamed of his arousal. “I dunno,” he said cautiously. “We’re a bit haywire. Must be the after effects of yesterday. Trauma does funny things to a person.”

“That’s one explanation,” said Aramis, but he still looked concerned and as he leant forward to continue the conversation, Porthos noticed something strange.

“Aramis, where’s your crucifix?” He’d never seen the man without it. He’d never noticed him take it off when they’d shared a room in halls. He’d never found it left in the bathroom of the flat they once rented together.

Aramis clutched at his chest, grasping at an imaginary chain. “Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve never taken it off since my mother gave it to me. I don’t remember doing anything with it.” He got to his feet in a panic. “I have to find it.”

“We’ll help you look,” said Porthos. “Chances are it’s got to be here. We’ve hardly been away from the place.” In fact, he and Athos hadn’t managed to escape once.

Just as the three of them were about to embark on a hunt for the missing cross, the doorbell rang, putting paid to the idea for now.

“It’ll wait,” said Aramis with a forced smile. “It’s only a bit of jewellery,” but his palm was pressed against his chest as if its absence was physically hurting him.

Porthos gave him a reassuring pat on the back and then opened the door to discover a good looking bloke standing on the porch with his arm around an elderly lady. 

“Hello there,” he said. “I’m Charon. This is my grandmother Arelia, and you’re definitely not the lady of the house.” His smile, along with his accent and handsome looks, combined to hit a perfect note and Porthos was taken aback. For some reason he’d been expecting someone well weathered and middle aged: a typical Louisiana boatman.

“I’m Porthos, one of the research team,” he said, offering his hand. “Pleased to meet you both. Come in.”

Arelia wasn’t too nimble on her feet and Porthos automatically took her other arm to help her inside, Charon nodding his thanks, and after introductions were made and tall glasses of iced tea were handed around, Arelia spoke to Charon in Creole.

“Mémé thanks you for making her so welcome,” said Charon once she had finished. “She wanted a chance to revisit Belle Isle before it’s gone.”

“What does she mean before it’s gone?” asked Anne.

“I have no idea.” Charon laughed. “She probably meant herself rather than the house. She also says she’s just wants to sit here, so don’t go asking her any questions.”

“Your grandma’s a bossy one,” said Porthos with a grin.

“Aren’t they all?” said Charon, putting his glass down on the coffee table. “So what can I do to help?”

Anne passed him the small hessian bag. “My builders found this when they were knocking down a wall a few months ago.”

Charon examined it carefully. “It’s nothing sinister,” he said, with a comforting smile. “This symbol on the front is the vévé for Erzulie. It is a spell to bring help, health and fortune to the house. Very common around here.”

“So even the original owners of the house would have believed in Voodoo?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Let’s just say they would have had a healthy respect for it,” said Charon with a grin. “There’s a chance it could have been put here by their slaves for other reasons. Erzulie is a contrary Goddess, she also can also bring jealousy and discord, but I doubt it in this case.”

“Why?” asked Porthos, thinking about the worsening atmosphere in the house.

“Because she would have to be conjured for that to happen and this is a simple charm.”

“Does this have anything to do with a conjuring?” asked Constance, opening her laptop and playing back a recording of the strange chanting.

Arelia slammed her hand down on the arm of the chair, snapping out a few words of Creole and, even with a language barrier, it was easy to tell what she was saying.

Constance turned off the sound file. “We recorded this here. The chanting never stops.”

Arelia looked at her. “Then, child, you are all in trouble. This explains a lot.”


	16. Chapter 16

“You speak English?” said Porthos, wondering why she’d not admitted this before. He hoped she wasn’t too offended by his earlier comment about her being bossy.

“I speak whatever I feel like speaking,” said Arelia with a twinkle in her deep brown eyes which seemed decades younger than her years. “That is an incantation, a binding spell. Do you know from which part of the house it originates?”

“It’s louder upstairs, if that helps at all,” said d’Artagnan.

“Then show me, young man. I need to know where the conjuring was done.” Arelia eased herself up from the rattan chair.

“Will you help?” said Charon, looking to Porthos who immediately came over, the two of them assisting Arelia to the stairs.

“Never get old,” she said to Porthos. “I was once as young and fit as you,” she added. “Though with a lot less muscle.”

Porthos could feel eyes on him. Charon’s warm brown ones were raking over him in appreciation, but Athos was also staring, detached from the rest and standing on his own next to the mantelpiece, looking over at the stairs. 

Up until then, Porthos had been enjoying his minor flirtation with Charon, a wicked part of him wanting to make Athos jealous, but one glance at the man made him change his mind. He seemed so isolated. “You coming, love?” he said.

Athos nodded, smiling. “Though I don’t think I’ll be much help.”

“Your man is lost,” muttered Arelia, validating his own thoughts on the subject. 

“We both need to go home,” said Porthos. “We all do.”

“What you need to do is take care,” said Arelia as she struggled with the stairs. “I worry for you.”

“Why?” asked Porthos.

Gripping his arm within the lock of her elbow, she stopped moving and stared at him. “Porthos, my boy, you are full of life and strength and love, but you need to keep your focus.”

Porthos shivered as if she’d looked into his soul and found him wanting.

“Everything will be fine as long as you believe in yourself,” she continued.

“I don't know what you mean,” he said, panic building. He couldn't do any more than he was already.

“We’ll talk later,” she said, squeezing his arm again.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said gruffly.

“Never hold my grandmere to anything. She’s as contrary as Erzulie,” chuckled Charon, receiving a stern look for his cheek.

“Up again,” said Arelia as they arrived at the first floor landing. “We’re not there yet, children.” As she reached the top of the second flight she sank exhausted into a chair. “Your contractors didn’t find anything here?” 

“Not that I’ve been told,” said Anne.

“When I worked at Belle Isle, this was an old storage area that no one ever used,” said Arelia. “I don’t recall Miss Eloise ever telling us to stay out, but there was always something _odd_ about it. No one ever wanted to go in the attic rooms. It wasn’t right.”

Not right, thought Porthos. That was exactly how he described the feeling. How Athos had described himself. 

“The valued house slaves would have lived up here,” she said. “The ones the family trusted not to kill them in their sleep.”

“Would they have been the ones who did the conjuring then?” said Aramis, speaking for the first time since their visitors had arrived. 

“I don’t think so,” said Arelia, looking Aramis up and down as if she were assessing his character. “The precious thing you are missing is hidden in Miss Eloise's room,” she added. “Keep your faith close to you. You will need it.”

“How do you know this?” said Aramis, staring at her in confusion. “How could you?”

“Your faith is as precious as your crucifix, Aramis.” A warm smile lit up her face. “I don’t know _how_ I know, and I have no control over _what_ I know,” she said. “I just know.”

Anne stalked up and down relentlessly. “But what about Belle Isle?” she asked crossly.

“Patience, Miss Anne,” said Arelia. “You and your house both need to quieten down.” She stopped as if she were listening intently. “They called on Papa Legba to begin with. He is the link between the living and the dead, the intermediary, and they must ask him first before they talk to the other Loa. They wanted a binding and they chose badly.” She drew back in fear. “They were foolish. They called on Kalfu and he is the most dangerous of all. He bound them in death as well as in life. Their souls are stuck fast.”

“These souls,” said d’Artagnan. “Can we contact them?”

Arealia shook her head. “It’s not the same as the wandering dead,” she said. “They cannot talk to Porthos here as easily as the others can. They are fixed into place.”

“Like the spell,” said Constance. “On repeat.”

“Exactly that, missy,” said Arelia, smiling at her. “These ones are yearning for the underworld, but they are angry because they are fastened to this place. They’re strong and growing stronger all the time, feeding off your energy, but they have been present here for hundreds of years. Miss Eloise was a frightened lady. When I worked at Belle Isle I never got close to her. I thought she had taken a disliking to me, but now I realise that she never allowed herself to get close to anyone. I think, maybe, that she was guarding the place, keeping folks away.”

“I remember she came to see you, Mémé,” said Charon, with a cheeky grin. “You were searching for your best silverware and you couldn’t find it.”

“Don’t you tease me, mon chou,” said Arelia. “She did come to visit me just before she passed. She asked me to do something for her.” She paused. “She wanted me to burn the place down once she had gone.” She looked around at her audience. “Maybe I should have done as she asked. Maybe it’s the only way to free it.” 

“Arson is not the solution,” spat Anne. “This is my home.” She glared at Arelia. “Who was trying to bind something? What were they trying to bind? This is complete and utter nonsense. Who’s turning my mirrors around and my life upside down? Who is watching over me all the time? A priest with a bell, book and candle would be more use than this.”

Athos threw her a withering look. “Don’t be so rude. Arelia’s come here to help you. Keep a civil tongue in your head, woman.”

“This is none of your business,” she hissed.

“Your bad manners are every bit my business,” said Athos.

“Enough of that.” Arelia fixed her eyes on the quarrelling pair. “You two need to be calm and stay in control of yourselves, and it’s real important you do so,” she said. “Now, to end the spell we first need to find out who worked it, and I don’t think the answer to that lies up here.” She stood up, shuffling her leg to try and get her hip working again, ready for the return journey. 

With Charon on one side and Aramis on the other side, Arelia made her way back downstairs, the others following on in slow procession, and, convinced they were now by themselves, Porthos turned Athos to face him, arms draped across his shoulders. 

“Do as Arelia says and calm down,” he murmured, kissing Athos on the mouth and holding onto him tightly, waiting for that tell-tale huff of breath and the slump of relaxation.

They were not alone. “That’s it,” said Anne in a sugar sweet voice. “Crawl into his arms like a good little boy, Athos. I’m surprised you haven’t fallen to your knees and sucked him off in front of everyone by now. You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you? You’re so proud of him. You make me sick, flaunting your twisted relationship the way you do.”

“I am proud of him, I love him, and our relationship is none of your business,” said Athos through gritted teeth.

“Your manners are every bit my business,” said Anne, spinning on her high heels. “And they are disgusting.” She stalked out of the bedroom and down the stairs, finally leaving them alone, the static charge in the room enough to set Porthos’ teeth on edge.

“That fucking cow.” Athos was flushed red. His eyes were bulging with fury. “Who the fuck does she think she is telling us how to behave?”

Porthos had never seen him so angry, and before the man had a chance to do anything he’d regret he pulled him back into a fierce hug. 

“I could kill her,” Athos said, shaking in Porthos’ arms. “I could wring her scrawny neck. How dare she say that.”

“Enough now,” said Porthos. This was a crazy overreaction on Athos’ part. He disliked Anne with a growing intensity, but she wasn't worth getting into this kind of state over. “She’s jealous because she likes you is all.”

Athos shook his head. “She doesn’t _like_ me. She hates me. She wants to own me.” He looked up at Porthos’ frown. “I can’t explain any of this. I wish I could. I don’t even know who I am.” It was a cry of despair.

“You’re you, and you’re gorgeous and I love you,” said Porthos, kissing Athos again and again on the lips until he calmed down. “Just two more days tops and we’ll be out of here.”

“Why doesn’t that make me happy?” said Athos, pulling free of Porthos. “I want to leave here, but I don’t think I ever will.”

“Of course you will. _We_ will,” said Porthos. “It’s easy. We get in the car and we drive out of here all the way to the airport, and when we’re there we get on the first plane back to Britain.”

“And we never do this again?” said Athos, looking up and just for a moment Porthos could feel him, fleetingly, but he was there. “Please. No more of this.” He sounded desperate. “No more ghosts and road trips and living out of suitcases. Just us being together?”

“We’ll live on the dole and never get out of bed, if that’s what makes you happy.” Porthos stepped in close again, lips pressed first to Athos’ forehead and then to his mouth.

“You make me happy,” said Athos, soft kisses turning to softer sighs of pleasure as Porthos slid down his body and knelt at his feet, opening his fly and taking him into his mouth. “Only ever you.”


	17. Chapter 17

Awkward, nervous of what they had been up to with so many people in the house, Porthos came downstairs with Athos at his side, Anne glaring at them every step of the way, her green eyes spitting venom. As soon as they reached the ground floor Arelia took Athos by the arm. “You and I need to have a chat, mon trésor,” she said and then, as they walked slowly into the dining room, she changed from English to French.

Athos was stilted at first, unwilling to let go, but then, as if a dam had broken, he began to speak, the words tumbling from his mouth. Despite the fact it was a private conversation, Porthos wished he could do more than pick out the odd short sentence, but his French was way beyond rusty. He peered into the room to see Athos leaning forward, his elbows propped on the table, talking urgently, endlessly, and, for a moment, he considered asking Aramis to eavesdrop and translate for him, but he knew better than that. It wouldn't be right.

“Mémé will look after him,” said Charon. “She loves to take care of people.” He looked sideways at Porthos who couldn’t quite manage to drag his eyes away from the one sided conversation that was happening in dining room. He hated seeing Athos so earnest, opening his heart to someone else, someone that should be him. 

“He’s a lucky man,” Charon continued.

“We’re both lucky,” said Porthos in a voice that was rough with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Then take my advice. Get away from Belle Isle as fast as you can and don’t look back,” said Charon. “This is a bad place, full of bad luck.”

They arrived in the lounge to find themselves in the midst of another heated discussion.

“Well, you can fuck off because I’m not letting Porthos do it,” shouted Aramis. “You saw what happened in the slave house. He nearly died and that was just from letting them come to him. Now you want him to open himself up and invite whatever evil thing is in this house to take him over, just so you can have a chat with it. No.” He shook his head angrily. “No way. Not happening.”

“But it’s essential,” said d’Artagnan.

“Everything’s essential to you, d’Artagnan, except for people and their feelings and their well being,” snapped Aramis. “You know what, I’ve seriously had enough. I’m calling time, catfish, using my veto. Whichever way you choose to describe it.” He stared defiantly at everyone. “We’re going home.” 

“I invited you here to help me,” said Anne, her arms folded angrily. “And now you want to run away in the middle of it, when things are worse than ever?”

“You allowed us here to do an investigation,” said Aramis, glaring at her. “We’ve investigated.”

“Did I?” Anne looked at d’Artagnan coquettishly. “Is that all it was? I thought you promised me a psychic who could work miracles.”

D’Artagnan looked down at his feet. “I said we’d do our best to get to the bottom of what’s going on here at Belle Isle.”

“And we’ve done exactly that,” stated Aramis. “But we’re not doing anything that will put lives at risk.”

“Aramis, mate, I think we need to continue with this for all our sakes,” said Porthos, coming over to sit next to his best friend on the long, low couch. “We’ve started, and unfortunately I reckon that means we have to finish.”

“But he didn’t even tell us the whole truth,” said Aramis, casting his eyes furiously over d’Artagnan. "He hired you out as a fucking exorcist, just so he could get a look at this place."

“And you also know why he did it,” said Porthos, glancing up at d’Artagnan who was a miserable mess, his eyes bright with emotion. Desperation was a dangerous thing and very difficult to control. “We’re here now and so, for better or worse, let’s just do it. Let’s try and get rid of this thing.” However much he and Anne didn’t get along, she didn’t deserve to have her life ruined by whatever it was that haunted this place.

“I’m really sorry,” said d’Artagnan and he was close to tears. “I never thought it would turn out to be so bad. I just wanted to be able to…” He looked down, unable to put into words exactly what he hoped to get out of this.

“Mon petit,” said Arelia as she came back from the dining room and, assisted by her grandson, eased herself into the armchair with a groan. “I got something to tell you, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and listen to me. Your daddy is just fine and he’s says it’s time for you let go of him now.”

“I- I- ” d’Artagnan stammered. “How could you know that?”

She chuckled and reached for his hand, patting it to comfort him. “I know what I know,” she said, repeating her words from earlier.

“I thought he’d be stuck here. Like the ones Porthos talks to.” D'Artagnan wiped away his tears which had begun to spill.

“He passed over, child, and now he wants you to live. He’s neither angry nor restless. He just needs you to move on.”

With Constance’s arm around him, d’Artagnan laid his head against her shoulder and let the tide of emotions wash over him: happiness, sadness, a growing sense of calm. 

There was so much relief coming from the young man, his aura unravelling in a good way, and Porthos was drawn to the old lady, instinctively moving closer, sitting next to her on the arm of the sofa and leaning in. “How do you do that?” he asked quietly.

“In fifty years time maybe you’ll understand,” she said with a smile. She waved an arthritic hand at the writing on the mirror. “There is a lifetime of conflict within these walls. You need to open your heart to it and stop being so frightened.”

“I’m not frightened,” Porthos said defensively, shifting awkwardly on the arm of the couch when Arelia stared at him. “Okay, so maybe I am frightened,” he admitted. “But I didn't ask to be able to do this.”

“There’s my honest boy,” she said. “Come help me outside and we’ll get a little air, if there's any to be had.”

Porthos liked being one of her children. She understood him and, safe in her presence, he no longer felt so weighed down. He felt an urge to cling to her legs and beg her to stay with him always.

“This is a beautiful place,” she said as Porthos helped her to the seat and then sat next to her.

“I don’t think so,” said Porthos. He was only aware of misery and death and a putrefying body watching over them from the creaking tree.

“That’s because you need to understand your sight. You let the spirits bully you. You see everything and hear everything, and, because of that, you know nothing.”

“I try my best,” said Porthos defensively.

“I know you do, child, and you have an incredible gift, but if you want to keep yourself and those that you love safe, then, like the boy, you must listen to what I have to say.”

Porthos was happy to take any advice she was offering, but first there was something he needed to ask, something that had been preying on his mind since the day they came to Louisiana. “When we first arrived in the bayous I saw an old man, leaning on a crutch, smoking a pipe. He smiled as if he knew me. Who was that?”

“Where did you see him?” asked Arelia, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“By the hanging tree at the junction for Thibodaux.” Porthos looked at her. “I also see him in the painting of the house. Athos does too.”

“Then you’re both stronger than I thought. You boys are blessed,” she said. “Or maybe cursed, I ain’t sure which. That old fellow you saw was Papa Legba. He’s never shown himself to me. He rarely shows himself to anyone unless summoned.” She sounded ever so slightly put out. “You certain you didn’t conjure him?”

“I wouldn’t have a clue where to start,” said Porthos. “I know nothing about Voodoo.”

“Then you should learn, Porthos, because you will need to understand it. Now listen to me well. Your man leaves himself open to everything and you will lose him completely if you're not careful.”

“What do you mean?” asked Porthos, feeling sick at the thought.

“He’s lost someone dear to him and he’s still searching for them, but this is not a conscious choice of his. He’s blind to it.”

“Did he tell you this?” said Porthos. He’d never known Athos open his soul to anyone.

“He told me his story and I listened to the words that he said, as well as the things that he didn't.” She patted Porthos on the hand. “You should try talking to him as well as sleeping with him. Listening is what you do best and you have a good heart. He needs you to be strong right now. He doesn't know what he is doing and you are all in danger because of it. He is a one way channel.”

Porthos was filled with foreboding and Charon’s advice was sounding better by the minute. “And if we walk away and leave here today?”

“Then neither you, nor your man will ever be free of this burden.”

“And if we'd never come to Belle Isle in the first place?”

“Who’s to know, child?” she said. “I can only help you with what _is_. The _what might have beens_ remain a mystery to everyone except for the Loa. Now help me back inside. I shall have another glass of Miss Anne’s iced tea, and after that I must go home. This house is still a tiresome place.”

You can’t go, Porthos wanted to cry as he helped her to her feet. Belle Isle felt safe with Arelia inside its walls. The old lady herself was a charm. For a moment, when they were upstairs, he and Athos had been close again, linked together by love and feelings, and not just an urgent compulsion for sex.

“Be vigilant and everything will be fine, Porthos,” she said as they stopped at the screen door.

“And what happens if I’m not?”

“Just be sure to be vigilant,” she added with a gentle smile. “There is one more thing you need to do. Go back to the slave houses. Those poor souls still need to be set free.”

When Porthos and Arelia returned from their chat on the verandah, Athos was back in the lounge room, sprawled on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table. There was a smile of contentment on his face, which changed immediately to something hotter and dirtier the moment he became aware of his boyfriend.

Porthos was drawn to him, ignoring the whisper of conscience coming from inside his head, telling him that things weren’t right. The Athos de la Fère he knew and loved, was kind hearted but reticent and, above all, private. He’d happily kiss Porthos in public, but would never lust after him so openly. Despite this knowledge, Porthos found his lover’s presence increasingly impossible to resist and he slid in tight against him, the sigh of pleasure from Athos, plus the lingering taste of him in his mouth, adding to his growing sense of urgency.


	18. Chapter 18

“When I worked here, Miss Eloise would have no mirrors in the house,” said Arelia, sipping at her drink. “And I could never understand why, seeing as she was as pretty as a picture of a summer’s day. I’m none the wiser now, but, from what you say, she still don’t like them too much.” She chuckled. “Neither would she have any men here at Belle Isle, other than was necessary. Men cause nothing but trouble, she’d say. Though I think she liked them well enough.”

“I understand her views completely,” said Anne, her eyes, as always, fixed on Athos and Porthos.

“I have a feeling she knew more than she’d ever let on about this place,” said Arelia “You need to talk to her, ask her directly. Something here is pushing her away, keeping her locked out, but she’s trying, poor lady. Why don’t you listen to her when she’s trying so hard to help?” Hand shaking noticeably, Arelia put the glass down on the table, all of a sudden looking every one of her years. “Charon, I’m tired. I need to get out of here and go home to my bed. Help me up.”

“Of course, Mémé,” he said.

Porthos went over to assist and, between them, the two men managed to get the old lady outside and safely into Charon’s car. 

“I would stay and talk to Miss Eloise myself,” she said to Porthos, “but I’m too old and way too feeble for this place. You’ll do just fine. Remember to stay strong, be vigilant and, most of all, be safe. I’ll ask Erzulie Dantor to protect you and your man. I’ll ask her to watch over all of you.”

“Thank you, Mémé,” said Porthos, kissing her on the cheek. He then turned to Charon, stretching out a hand. “Thank you for all your help.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Charon and, taking hold of the hand he leaned in close, brushing a kiss against the side of Porthos’ face. “Ignore my grandmother and get away from here,” he murmured. “Save yourselves before it’s too late.”

Porthos watched the car drive off, a wave of panic hitting him square in the chest, almost knocking him to his feet. Recovering his senses, he turned to walk back to the house to see Athos watching him from the verandah. It was the perfect time to talk, he thought. The swing seat seemed to inspire honesty.

“Has your pretty man gone now?” said Athos, a spark of jealousy in his eyes, which looked greener than usual in the warm southern light.

“Nah,” growled Porthos, taking Athos into his arms. “He’s right here, where he belongs.”

They kissed, falling into one another, the heat from the afternoon sun searing them, instilling in them an irresistible need to get closer.

“Can we have a chat?” said Porthos, finally dragging himself free and leading Athos over to the seat.

“Don’t we do enough of that?” said Athos, sucking at Porthos’ neck then pulling back to examine the darkening patches of skin with pride at a job well done. “You taste so good. Why do you always taste so good?” He curved into Porthos, his tongue sliding over him, a hand working its way under the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

“What were you talking to Arelia about earlier?” said Porthos, trying to ignore the insect hum of arousal that was building inside, bothering him until he was filled with an itch that needed to be scratched.

“Life in France,” said Athos, opening Porthos up with delicate kisses to his lips. “Family stuff. Speaking in French brought things back that I’d forgotten.”

“Tell me about them,” said Porthos, wondering how he could have been so close to Athos, for so many years and yet have no knowledge of him at all.

“There’s nothing much to tell,” said Athos, but then he shrugged and tensed up. “Well, I suppose there is, but it’s not a happy story.”

“I want to know,” said Porthos. “I need to know about you, Athos.” It was long overdue.

“Contrary to popular opinion, I had far from a perfect childhood,” Athos said without emotion. “My father died of a heart attack when he was in his mid forties.” He stared into the distance. “My mother had never been well, but once he was gone she grew far worse and they finally diagnosed her with paranoid schizophrenia. Medication didn’t help and she’s been in a private hospital ever since.”

“Bloody hell, Athos.” Porthos felt dreadful for not asking about his family before. “So, you came to England to escape from it?” 

“I don't know. I suppose so, in a way,” said Athos, and he looked confused, as if he'd never really thought about it. “Look, it’s okay, really it is. All of this happened twenty years ago. I was screwed up back then, but I’m fine now.”

“You don’t ever go and visit your mum?”

Athos shivered. “I can’t. Seeing me makes her worse. She’s extremely violent, locked in psychosis.”

“You should have told me,” said Porthos. He shouldn’t feel resentful at being excluded from Athos’ life, but a part of him did, and it was just enough to sting. “I could have helped you. We could have talked things through.” It explained Athos’ reliance on alcohol and his desire to shut people out. It explained so much about his stupidly secretive man.

“Porthos,” said Athos, his lips tipping upward into a half smile. “I’m fine. The only thing which worries me is the thought that I may have inherited my mother’s illness.”

Oh fuck. Of course. “Which is why you were freaked out by the blackouts?” said Porthos, understanding everything. The growing feeling of detachment must have been making things seem so much worse. “And the wrongness.”

Athos nodded. “Classic delusional symptoms,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “So, be prepared with a straitjacket.”

“I’ll keep one handy,” said Porthos in a gruff voice, emotional and overprotective. “But you know I prefer to take your clothes off rather than add to them.” He kissed Athos on the mouth. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening,” said Athos, and as he looked down at the floor, unsure of himself and awkward, Porthos could see that he was back, all of him just as he should be, sweet and strait-laced and entirely at odds with life and everything in it.

“I love you, Athos,” he said, blown away by how much he’d missed him, even if it had been just for a couple of days. “Stay with me. Please.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the chirping of the cicadas and the occasional splash of something large moving through the creek. Even that hanged body was at rest for once, but then, inevitably, it started to swing, its torn skirt flapping against withered flesh.

“I’m always here.” Athos grinned at him, sliding a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him closer. “And I love you too,” he said as his mouth worked a wandering path of kisses from ear via jaw to Porthos’ mouth, a hand cupping the front of Porthos’ jeans and kneading him to erection.

This wasn’t mental illness speaking, but neither was it Athos and yet, with eyes stinging, Porthos couldn’t help but kiss him back. His own self awareness clouded in a haze, he sprawled back against the cushions and let Athos have his way, mouth searching, fingers flicking opening the buttons of his fly then tugging him free of his boxers, stiff as a poker and leaking a steady stream of excitement.

“You like this?” Athos asked, his voice gritty with desire as he slid his palm from root to tip, covering the full length of Porthos’ wet cock with each stroke. “You like me having you like this, where everyone can see how beautiful you are and how much I love you? How much we belong together.”

Lost for words, Porthos grunted with need, bucking up and shoving himself into Athos’ fist, helpless and wanton. The sound of the door opening didn’t change a thing--Porthos was beyond caring--and when Anne de Winter stood in front of them, hatred pouring out of her like a stone faced gargoyle, he couldn’t even comprehend what she was saying. Leaning over, Athos took him into his mouth and all Porthos could do was come, loud and proud, his fingers twisting knots into Athos’ hair, his eyes fixed on Anne as he smiled up at her victoriously.


	19. Chapter 19

“I can’t find it anywhere,” said Aramis, his hair standing on end from where he’d trawled his fingers through it in frustration. “Are you certain Constance is sleeping in Eloise’s old bedroom?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure,” said Anne coldly. “Why, on earth, would I lie about it?”

“He didn’t accuse you of lying,” said Athos. “He simply said you could be wrong.”

“That crazy old woman’s probably the one who’s wrong,” retorted Anne.

“There’s only one crazy woman around here,” said Athos, pushing past Anne to get to the hallway. “I’ll mix some drinks.”

“You keep your filthy hands out of my kitchen,” said Anne. “Go sit and make eyes at your boy all night.”

“Whilst you go and mix the drinks.” Athos smirked. “What an excellent idea.”

Drawing an arm back, she slapped him viciously across the face, and the second it happened Porthos was out of his seat and on his feet, moving faster than he’d ever done in his life, a scenario of the near future playing out in his head, Athos with his hands twisted around Anne’s throat, squeezing until she collapsed.

Before it could happen, he grabbed hold of the man from behind, restraining him whilst glaring over his shoulder at Anne. “Apologise for hitting him,” he said.

“I will not,” she said, a smile on her face. “I have every right to do so, and I’ll do it again.”

“Anne, why don’t we go and make some cocktails,” said Constance, white faced with shock and distressed from the level of tension in the room.

“Once she apologises,” said Porthos, his voice tight with anger.

“Which will never happen until you and he learn how to behave in public.” Anne folded her arms and glared back.

“Apologise,” snarled Porthos.

“I’m so very sorry.” Anne looked at Athos. “Let me fetch you a bottle of bourbon to make up for it. I’ve heard from the others how fond you are of your whiskey.”

Athos’ body was rigid with stress, his heart was thumping violently enough for Porthos to feel it beating and it was a concern now that he knew the family history. “Go,” he said to the woman. “Fuck off out of here now.” 

For a long moment she stared at Porthos. If she’d had a gun in her hand, it would be smoking and he would be dead. Instead, she turned and walked out of the lounge.

The heavy silence hung over them like a shroud and Porthos knew, without a doubt, this was building to some kind of climax. Let it be over, he thought. Please, let it be over.

“So, where were we?” said Aramis, trying to excise some of the tension from the room. “We’ve checked every nook and cranny of Constance's bedroom and I still can’t find my crucifix. Any ideas where it might be?”

There was a subdued shaking of heads. No one mentioned the strange argument. Porthos had a feeling that no one dared look at Athos quite yet. Even when they sat back in their customary places on the couch, Porthos could still taste that anger, vicious and bloody in his mouth as if he was chewing on raw meat. Athos’ aura was so startlingly dark that if there was a drinks tray on hand he’d offer him one, just to help him relax.

“Maybe we should ask Eloise Chapelle,” he said.

“We can’t, Porthos,” said Aramis. “Please don’t do this. Seances are dangerous things.”

“I know, but I don’t think we have much of a choice,” said Porthos. He listened to the rumble of thunder in the distance. “Even the Loa agree.“ You couldn’t get a more perfect night for this. “Okay, you lot. Are you all set up for this?” he said, looking around at the technical members of the team. “If not, then get moving. We have a few hours to prepare.” Arelia had told him he needed to talk to Miss Eloise and, quite honestly, he’d do anything if it meant they could escape Belle Isle and its bag of dirty little secrets.

“Are you sure you can do this safely?” said Aramis, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

Porthos wasn’t certain of anything, except for his faith in Arelia. “No,” he said with a forced grin. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”

“Surely it’ll be worth it if she can tell you where your necklace is hidden,” smirked Athos.

“It’s a crucifix, you pillock,” said Aramis, elbowing him in the ribs. “You make it sound as if it’s a pearl choker with a cameo.”

“Much the same thing to me.” Athos quirked an amused eyebrow and Porthos wondered why it had taken him so long to see those barricades.

"Heathen." Aramis grinned at him.

“This room’s wired up so tightly we should be able to detect every flutter of a mosquito’s wings,” said Constance, rustling up a smile from somewhere. “I’ll add in some extra sensors, just to make sure we have everything covered.”

“We need to do the baselines again, just to make sure the storm doesn’t mess with the readings,” said d’Artagnan, slowly emerging from his stupor.

“Is this the best place to try and contact her?” said Aramis, scratching his head. “Surely the bedroom where she died would be a better bet?”

“Don’t say that.” Constance shivered. “Anyway, I’ve been sleeping undisturbed in there for two nights. Plus all the phenomena keep happening in here.”

“Just because it was her bedroom, doesn’t mean she died in there,” said Porthos. “Right, people. After dinner, once we’ve all chilled out a bit, we do the seance in here, yes?”

“Yes, I suppose so. If you insist,” said Aramis. “No sitting around a table and holding hands though because that’ll just make me laugh.”

Privately, Porthos doubted anyone would be doing much laughing. Athos was a silent ball of tension next to him. D’Artagnan was in a world of his own, still processing what Arelia had said to him earlier. Constance was visibly scared, and, without his crucifix, Aramis was as jittery as hell. Porthos was simply determined to get this over. He had two things on his list: contact Eloise so he could try and understand the binding enough to undo it, and then tomorrow, go back to the slave quarters with Athos and finish what they’d started. 

Be strong. safe. Be vigilant.

~*~

The afternoon and evening turned out to be more pleasant than anyone was expecting Perhaps the earlier arguments had been a release, the sluice gates opening enough to let them behave as normal for a change.

Porthos had been convinced that Athos would turn to his best friend, whiskey, to help him get through this, but, once again, he was the epitome of moderation. Careful with his words, he and Anne managed to hold reasonably polite conversations where necessary, but he still wasn’t right and was keeping a tight leash on something that bubbled close to the surface. Porthos could sense the charge building and knew that Athos wanted him. He knew it because he wanted him back, equally as much. 

After helping to clear away the dinner things, Porthos went looking for Athos, needing some of that quiet comfort he could only ever get from being in his presence. He found him on the porch, sitting with Aramis, both of them lounging on the swing seat with their feet up on the rail, smoking and drinking iced tea together.

The picture was so wrong that Porthos lashed out in anger. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His jealousy was unfounded and unnatural; it seared through him like wildfire, burning away every iota of common sense in its path.

“What am I supposed to do, Porthos?” Athos stood up, taking a last drag of his half smoked cigarette then stamping it out on the boards. “I didn’t want to come here, but you did and so we came anyway. You told me to slow my drinking down and so I did. Now, I have one cigarette and you don’t want me smoking. You tell me to jump. I say how high. Aramis is right: what Porthos wants, Porthos fucking gets. What more can I do to please you?” The last sentence was spoken in abject misery.

“I asked you if we could leave here,” said Porthos in a low voice. “I asked you again and again.”

“I _can’t_.” Athos looked at him, weighed down with fear, and then he stumbled down the steps and raced away across the lawn.

Porthos swallowed back the pain. He had to stop denying the truth. It wasn’t just Athos; neither of them were right.

“Go after him, Porthos,” said Aramis.

“And do what?” Porthos was panicked, sick from the adrenaline backlash of anger and jealousy. “I’ll only make things worse.”

“Maybe things have to get worse before they can get better,” said Aramis.

Without any further encouragement needed, Porthos hunted Athos down. He was quicker, far more athletic, and it didn’t take long to reach the man, grab him and hang on tight, weathering a different kind of storm from the one that had hit him when they’d first arrived at the property.

“I’m blaming it all on you and that’s not fair,” muttered Porthos. He groaned, racked with need as Athos turned in his arms. “We’re perfect together, but we’re horrible when we’re here.”

“I know.” Athos kissed him hard on the mouth and dragged a hand down his chest. “I have to fuck you,” he said and it was an apology.

Porthos hissed with desire, hands shaking as he unfastened Athos’ flies and pushed down his jeans, fingers closing around that hard cock and pulling at him firmly. “Then do it,” he said, aware that they were no more than fifty feet away from the house, on show to all this time and not just Anne. “I need you inside me.”

Athos unzipped him and shoved at his clothes. “That’s it,” he moaned as Porthos collapsed eagerly onto all fours in the grass. “That’s a good boy,” he said as he opened him him up with saliva wet fingers and mounted him like a bitch.

As they fucked, raw and abandoned, Porthos longed for this to be over.


	20. Chapter 20

If anyone had seen what they were up to outside then no one said a word. Afterwards, Porthos escaped upstairs and hid in the shower until his skin pruned, washing away the come and trying to find a balance point that would allow him to continue on with this nightmare and see it through to the finish. If Athos’ sanity was hanging by a thread, then his own was just as delicate. His semblance of control was lost.

“Do we light candles?” asked Constance when Porthos stuck his head around the lounge door. She was busy getting baseline temperatures and EMF readings from every corner of the room.

“I dunno,” he said. “Should we?” He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“You’ve seriously never done anything like this before?” asked d’Artagnan. 

“Never had to.” Porthos relaxed back as Athos wound both arms around him and curved into him. “They’re always just here. Arelia said I needed to try harder. I got a bad report.”

“Not from me,” murmured Athos.

Porthos smiled then turned and shushed him a kiss. “Which means, boys and girls, I have no idea what I’m doing, any more than you do.”

“Do you want me to take part too?” said Anne and she sounded awkward, ill at ease with them and out of place in her own home.

“Of course you must,” said Athos politely and Porthos smiled at the way he’d worded it. He didn’t want her. Neither of them wanted her.

The wind picked up and as Constance and d'Artagnan lit the candles on the mantelpiece and the sconces they guttered, wax spitting then spilling onto the surfaces. It was far too hot to consider closing the windows.

With the six of them settling into chairs and sofas around the room, Porthos breathed in and then let out a controlled huff of air. Intake, exhale. Intake, exhale. What should he say, he wondered, taking his time to prepare. In these circumstances, he’d normally let the spirits race in and take over, but that was the wrong thing to do.

Remembering what Arelia had said to him, Porthos concentrated on himself and his own strengths. Instead of being manipulated, he listened and absorbed the energy changes in the room, knowing precisely when a seventh member had joined the seance. “Miss Eloise,” he said politely. God, this was embarrassing. “Arelia said I need to talk to you urgently. I’m sorry for not listening sooner.”

It seemed a ridiculous thing to verbalise, and he had no intention of letting the others know if they couldn’t see it for themselves, but a cliché was appearing before his eyes, formed from a fog of vapour and something wetter and more solid in nature. Thrown backwards onto the cushions, he was surrounded by a cold, choking presence that smothered him and, fighting for breath, he pushed himself upright and then leaned over, trying to recover his senses.

As Porthos looked back up, the whole room greyed out, turning from colour to sepia and then to black and white, and he was scared. This was not malevolent, but it was vivid. Real. Eloise Chapelle was with him in sentience as well as soul.

“Porthos, are you all right?” asked Aramis.

“He’s doing fine,” said Athos.

“That one in my chair loves his facial hair altogether too much,” said Eloise Chapelle, her form more clearly defined now. 

As cold as if he were walking the moors at night, Porthos shivered and let out a strangled laugh. “She says you spend too much time on your beard,” he told Aramis.

“You’re a one to talk,” muttered Aramis with a half smile.

“You need to concentrate and hold me here long enough for me to tell you what you need to know,” said Eloise. “His crucifix is by the fireplace in my bedroom. The place where I have always hidden everything of value. Tell him to be careful. It is a powerful charm and the Loa hates it. It hates me for my faith and it will hate him for the same reason, but he must keep it safe.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Porthos and he turned to the others. “Do you see her?”he asked. He knew he answer from the way they were focused on him rather than the shifting image of the old lady, distorted as if she were finding it almost impossible to hold her shape. “Can you at least hear her?”

“No,” said Constance, “but the readings are off the scale. The temperature’s dropped by seven degrees and the EMF is spiking.”

“There’s nothing showing up on camera,” said Aramis.

“There’s a cold spot in between you and Athos,” said d’Artagnan, who was looking at the thermal imagery.

“That’s where she is,” murmured Porthos. “Aramis, she says your crucifix is hidden by the fireplace in her room. She says to be careful. That you’re a target for the Loa when you wear it.”

“Listen to me, Porthos,” said Eloise. “Arelia is a fine lady, but she does not understand everything. I should have told her the truth, but I was afraid. Belle Isle is a trap. I was stuck here. The lady, Anne, is stuck in its web, as are you and your lover. You need to unbind it.”

“But how do we do that?” he asked. 

“It’s too dark here to know. Too dark.” Eloise showed Porthos a flash of things ancient and so very cold. “Make this end,” she begged. “Let me rest. Help me leave. I can’t stand to be here any longer.” 

Porthos was weighed down by the sadness of her existence, a life and death of loneliness and pain spilling over him like tears, and he turned to Athos to help him free her, but the man was still and silent, as empty as a corpse. He stared at Porthos with eyes that weren’t his and Porthos shrank away from him in horror.

“Athos,” he pleaded and as he did so Athos let out a deep sigh, a death rattle, and disappeared entirely from Porthos’ second sight. Swallowed whole by the darkness, there was nothing left of him but shadows as this _thing_ , this inky black essence poured out from him, bitter tasting and wrong. Filling the room with its scent of acrid earth, it folded itself around Eloise and took possession of her, dragging her into that dark void which had once been Athos. 

“One of you will die,” whispered Miss Eloise as she slipped away, caught in the maelstrom.

“Athos!” Porthos crawled to him through the mire. “Please, Athos.” It was as if every ounce of vitality had been sucked out of the man, the moment that thing had used him to chase Eloise Chapelle away from them. “Athos, I need you. Please come back.”

Athos stuttered for breath, his eyes opening to their full extent as he stared at Porthos. “One of us will die,” he said with certainty.


	21. Chapter 21

The room lights were switched on and as Porthos emerged fully from the trance, it was with a shudder that was so reminiscent of climax that, at first, he wasn’t certain what had happened to him. He was bound to this place by sex. With relief, he looked down at his lap to find it clean and dry. Memories returned a moment later and he could no longer breathe, choking from recollected shadows as if they were elemental rather than echoes of the near past.

“That’s it,” said Athos, rubbing those slow circles on his back to calm him down.

“You were gone,” Porthos said, looking into familiar blue eyes, kind and soft, no longer dark with death. “You left me. You promised not to leave me.”

“I’ve been here all the time,” said Athos, reassuringly. “Right next to you.” 

He stretched out an arm, hooking it around Porthos to pull him closer and, as he did so, Porthos’ mouth filled with the acrid after-taste of rot and deep forest earth, and he had to hold back the bile which rose to his throat.

“Something came in and it used you to get here,” he said slowly, carefully. “Something bad.”

Athos looked at him. “Honestly, Porthos, I’ve been sitting here quiet as a mouse listening to you do your thing.”

“Except for that part at the end when you told us we were going to die,” said d’Artagnan, throwing him a look of concern.

“I did no such thing,” smirked Athos, inching closer to Porthos. “Did I?” His expression shifted from wry amusement to a twist of fear.

That smell of the graveyard was gone and Porthos was able to cuddle up to him again. “It’s okay,” he said, knowing what was bothering the man. “It wasn’t another blackout.” He had no idea what was going on, but, of that much, he was certain.

“Shit!” said Aramis, looking up from his camera. “Hang on a sec, folks. I need to get a monitor in here so I can show you this.”

Aware of the other three bustling about, setting up equipment, Porthos concentrated on Athos. “Arelia told me that you leave yourself open. She says you’re looking for someone, and we know this is true, because you’ve dreamt about it.”

“Once,” said Athos. “I’ve dreamt about it once.” He stared at him in bemusement. “I’m not looking for anyone. Not that I’m aware of anyway. Please stop going on about this. Are you trying to drive me mad?”

Porthos baulked at this. “No, of course I’m not, but like it or not, something’s happening to you,” he said in a low voice, taking possession of Athos’ hand which was as cold as if he’d touched death. “I’m not going to give up. You’re the one that needs to stop channelling everything and take control of your sight.”

“I’m not a psychic,” muttered Athos stubbornly. “And how am I supposed to stop doing something when I’m not aware that I’m even doing it?” He went to get up, but Porthos pulled him back down into the seat. “This is bullshit,” he said, rounding on Porthos in a sudden fit of temper. “It’s this fucking house.”

“It’s not, Athos. Listen to me,” said Porthos gently. “I know what it must be. Your dad’s crossed over and you need to stop looking for him. Arelia helped d’Artagnan with the exact same thing.”

“She did,” said the young man, coming over to sit next to Athos. “You need to let go of him and know he’s at peace.”

“No,” said Athos, letting out a single bitter laugh. “Sorry, but you’re so far off the mark, it’s ridiculous. I didn’t even like my father. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I couldn’t have cared less when he died.”

Porthos was immensely bothered by this. He should know these things instinctively. More to the point, he should know, because Athos should have fucking told him. He was about to ask him to elaborate on the subject when the video feed from the camera appeared on the monitor that had been set up on the coffee table in front of them, the sound tinny and slightly out of sync being played back through a wireless speaker.

Porthos had seen himself on video hundreds of times _doing his thing_ , as Athos always called it, but never during this kind of classic, commune with the dead session. It was frightening to see himself in trance, talking away to an invisible presence. Normally he was pretty much silent until the end: a channel through which the spirits could vent and then, with Athos’ help, depart. This was far weirder to watch and, as far as he could make out, there was nothing showing up on the camera, but then, just when he was about to ask Aramis what he was supposed to be looking at, something bizarre happened. It was as if a dark oily film was spilling over the room, twisting itself into a vortex and then disappearing. 

“Rewind,” said Porthos because something, seconds earlier, had caught his eye. “Stop,” he said. “Play from there. Half speed.”

As Porthos had known all along, the darkness originated from Athos. At least it originated from where Athos had been sitting, because the face belonged to someone very different.

“Madre de Dios,” said Aramis. “I never noticed. How can I have missed that?”

Athos got up from his seat abruptly.

“Where are you off to?” asked Porthos.

“Packing,” said Athos. “I’ve had enough. I’m going home.”

“No, you’re not,” said Porthos, trying to temper his words with a conciliatory tone. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain that leaving here, under these circumstances, would be the worst thing possible for them all. “I know it’s frightening, Ath. Believe me, I know how it feels.”

"Don't ever call me that." Athos wheeled around to glare at him. “I’m not frightened. I’m pissed off and I’m sick of this,” he said. “Of everything.”

“Please, Athos,” said Anne, stepping in front of him to block the doorway. “If you go now we’ll never be free of this. I can’t live like this and neither can you.”

It was a shock when they moved into each other’s arms, clinging together in mutual despair, as familiar and as easy as if they'd known each other forever. The moment didn’t last long, but it was enough to spike Porthos’ anger. _He_ should have known the right thing to say. Last week, without a doubt, he would have done. He should be the one offering comfort to Athos. Instead, he was shouting at him like a school teacher.

“Fucking hell, though guys. This is real,” yelped d’Artagnan, who had been watching and re-watching the footage, too caught up to be aware of any atmosphere. “This is documented evidence. This is crazy.”

Porthos was angry. He’d never been a bad tempered man until coming here to Belle Isle. He was angry with Athos. Angry on Athos’ behalf. How could d’Artagnan treat this like a successful science experiment?

“Crazy indeed,” said Athos, stepping away from Anne and not quite catching Porthos’ eye.

“You’ll stay?” said Anne.

“If I must,” said Athos in that disinterested way of his which Porthos now knew was a complete façade. “I’m going to bed. It’s late.”

“It is,” said Constance, aiming a worried look in his direction. She turned to d’Artagnan. “I know this is what you’ve been looking for, pet, and I am excited for you, honest, but do you mind if I go to bed too? I’m absolutely shattered, and I think we all need to leave this alone for now and calm down.”

“But-” said Aramis.

“We’ll look for your crucifix in the morning,” said Constance. “Make sure all the equipment’s set up before you turn in, boys.”

Yawning, she left the room and, without another word to anyone, Athos went too. Porthos followed them both in a procession up the stairs, aware of the gabble of excited sentences coming from d’Artagnan, with Aramis joining in, equally as enthusiastic. 

He couldn’t listen to their chatter. He was too tired and too pissed off. He was frightened for Athos and, however much he tried to tamp it down, a small part was now frightened _of_ him too. 

Slowing down, as he neared the top of the second flight of stairs, he felt a huge weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. He understood why this was thrilling for the others. For them it was a trip into the unknown: a real life horror movie with evidence of life after death. Only to him, it _was_ real and it _was_ horrifying and it _was_ , quite literally, soul destroying. He’d seen too much of it.

After a quick splash wash, he passed Athos, who was on his way into the bathroom, without a single word exchanged between them. Getting wearily into bed, Porthos discovered that he was upset enough to be on the point of breaking down. He was homesick. He was lonely and desperately unhappy.

“Can we just go to sleep for once?” he said a while later, hearing Athos pad back into the bedroom, his bare feet slapping against the floorboards. “I’ve had enough sex to last a lifetime.”


	22. Chapter 22

With hindsight, Porthos knew it was the wrong thing to have said. It was stupid and callous. Thoughtless and uncaring. Athos always offered him the comfort of his body after a traumatic experience and, to pay him back when he most needed it, Porthos had shut him out. Shot him down before he’d even got into bed.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He tried to explain. “It’s late and I’m tired.” He could feel the depression of the mattress as Athos climbed in, but no heat of a body pressing up against his back. “Athos?”

“I’m not particularly in the mood for a fuck myself, and I can clearly see why you wouldn’t be. So, please stop talking and let's just go to sleep.”

Oh hell. “No, love. No. It’s not because of what happened to you,” said Porthos. There was a hissed intake of breath which told him he was on the right track. “It’s everything. This house. You and Anne.” 

“You don’t want to fuck me because I hugged my wife?” 

“Wait, what?” said Porthos with a frown. “Anne de Winter’s not your wife,” he continued, although there were times when that’s exactly what they were like: a married couple, arguing and making up.

“I know,” said Athos. “I don’t…”

His voice was pitching with anxiety and, with the lights out and the moon hidden behind a blanket of cloud, Porthos couldn’t even catch a glimmer of him. He clicked the bedside light, but the bulb flashed and blew. 

“I know she isn’t. I can’t think. I have no idea why I said it,” Athos continued, his words sporadic. His thoughts were becoming disjointed and all over the place. “I don’t understand. Something’s wrong. Something’s here, crawling all over me.” He curled foetally and there was the sound of a suppressed sob. “I’m going mad, just like she did. I know I am. I can feel it inside me all the time.”

“No,” said Porthos, launching himself at Athos and covering him with his body. “No. No, you’re not. You’re fine, my darling,” he said and, shaking from a combination of fear and need, he wet Athos hurriedly and took him with a thrust of the hips. “Nothing’s in you but me,” he said as they clung together, rocking into each other. “You and me, Athos. Just you and me. Safe and sound.” By tomorrow afternoon they’d be away from here. “You’re right, it’s the house. This is a bloody awful place,” he said. “That’s all that’s the matter. I promise. I promise you, everything’s fine.”

~*~

They fucked again in the morning, crushed up sweaty and hot, buried under the sheets, their bodies coming together on instinct the moment they awoke.

“I-” said Porthos, and he was about to apologise again when Athos silenced him with a kiss.

“We’re good,” he said matter-of-factly. “Everything’s good.”

Porthos wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to persuade. “Sure? Because you don’t sound it.” 

“Sure I’m sure.” Athos quirked an amused eyebrow. “I’m not going mad and you’re not an arse.”

“Well, that’s okay then.” Porthos kissed the top of his head. “You have me totally convinced.”

Late again for breakfast, sex more of a need for them than food, the crowd were already gathered by the time they came downstairs, with Aramis on show as centre of attention, brimming over with excitement. 

“I found it,” he said, the ornate crucifix dangling between his fingers. “Exactly where our ghostly old lady said it would be, hidden under a loose floor board by the fireplace.” He raised his eyebrows at Porthos. “It was neatly wrapped around these,” he said showing him a stack of thin notebooks: diaries dated from the early nineteenth century. “Why were they hidden, do you think?”

“I dunno.” Porthos could feel a new level of anxiety creeping in. He looked at Athos to make sure he was okay and the man stared back at him, chewing at his nails, haunted once again by everything. Why could no one else feel the binding that was tightening around them? They were trapped. “The only way to find out is to read what’s in them.” He looked dubiously at the pile of books, not relishing the idea. 

“I’ll go through them,” said Constance. “I love a bit of historical drama.”

“If you’re sure, then great,” said Porthos. “Even if I wanted to, which I really don’t, I wouldn’t have time today.” He looked around the room, pretty certain of the reaction he was about to receive. “I need to go back to the slave houses to sort out some unfinished business.” He looked at Athos and then Aramis. “And I need you both to come wth me.”

“No!” said d’Artagnan, getting to his feet. “This is _my_ research team. I’m responsible for you all and I’m saying that’s it. I’ve put you in too much danger already. We have more than enough proof. All we could ever need.”

Porthos shrugged. “Sorry, mate, but it’s not about proof; it’s about those people. And it doesn’t matter what you say, because I’m still going ahead with it. Arelia asked me to do it. Athos and I need to help them cross over.”

Athos was pale and silent. Aramis was neither.

“Porthos, this is a terrible idea, my friend,” he said shaking his head. “Remember what happened last time? You nearly died in there. You both did.” He looked at Athos who stared blankly back at him.

“I know.” Porthos nodded. Everything Aramis said was true. Theirs was a dangerous job and one from which he was entirely happy to retire. Athos was right. They’d been through enough. “But I have to do this one thing before I go,” he said. “I can’t leave them stuck here.” He looked to Athos for support who nodded vaguely in acceptance. “After that we’re going home and we’re staying there. No more ghost hunting. I don’t care if I have to work a factory line packing cakes into boxes. Anything would be better than this. You’ll never see either of us set one foot over the threshold of the psych department, ever again.” He looked at Athos. “Agreed, love?”

“Agreed.” For the first time today Athos smiled and it was one of those rare full beam ones that always made Porthos’ insides ache with pleasure. “In fact, I’ve never agreed with anything more in my life.”

The thought that in a matter of weeks they would be away from this life for good was exactly the boost Porthos needed to finish this.

“Wow, this is amazing,” said Constance, scanning through the first book. “This is the diary of a woman called Milady. She came over from France to marry, Olivier, the eldest son of the family. It was very much an arranged marriage, but she was really excited, even though she’d never met him. She must have had an adventurous spirit.”

“The only amazing thing is that you find it so fascinating,” said d’Artagnan looking up from his laptop. “I’d rather write my dissertation again.”


	23. Chapter 23

Leaving Constance embroiled in her real life romance novel and d’Artagnan writing up a report of last night’s events, the other three set out for the slave quarters, Aramis sighing with relief as he slipped the thick gold chain of the crucifix back around his neck. “That feels better,” he said with a smile. “I didn’t dare put it on inside the house in case I came down with another mystery illness.” He looked at Athos. “Or a sudden case of possession.”

“I believe all that religious iconography is supposed to ward off the demons rather than encourage them in,” said Athos dismissively, but even with their fingers just loosely linked together, Porthos could sense the tension build in him, and he aimed a disapproving look in Aramis’ direction.

“Just a bit of paranormal humour to brighten up our day,” muttered Aramis, shifting awkwardly under Porthos’ stern gaze.

Porthos knew that Aramis was only trying to test the waters, to see how Athos was coping after last night, but he was going about it in a clumsy way. He hoped it would be the final attempt at digging, because Athos was strung out and too close to the edge already. 

He, himself, was faring better. Seeing light at the end of the tunnel--a phrase that would always mean more to him than it would your average joe--Porthos was not so much thinking of the future, but was simply day dreaming of a tiny house in Warwick, its bedroom hardly big enough to hold their king size bed. He was pining for that life of home cooked meals and washing on the line, and the smell of their own sheets, fresh on the bed.

As they crossed the footbridge, he clasped Athos’ hand firmly within his. “Not long now.”

“I’m sorry, Porthos, but I can’t do this,” said Athos, shaking loose from his grip. “I can’t go in there again.”

He should be the one too scared to show his face, thought Porthos. He’d promised them help and had failed. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “We have to help them cross. You know we do. It wouldn’t be right to leave them as they are.”

“I can’t. I honestly can’t.” Athos bent forward and threw up the contents of his stomach. He was shaking violently as he retched, and Porthos found himself relieved that he wasn’t producing a spew of ink black horror.

Aramis rubbed Athos’ back to soothe him as he was sick for a second time. “Don’t make him do this, my friend. Look at him. He’s a mess.”

“I know,” Porthos answered him grimly. “I fucking know, alright.” They could run. Maybe they _should_ run, but Arelia had told him that they’d never be free if they did, and, as much as Porthos hated Anne de Winter, he knew the woman was right in what she’d said last night. None of them could live like this. He was left without any choice. He’d have to do this alone, and he’d never been in this situation without knowing Athos was there to steady him and take over when necessary. “Stay here,” he said, waiting for Athos to recover, and then leading him over to rest against one of the towering, tangled cypresses. “I’ll be fine on my own.” 

Still shaking, his face ghost like in its pallor, Athos leant back against the trunk, his eyes closed. “I can do it,” he said, trying to summon up some strength, but whatever happened last night had drained him. He looked ill.

“No,” said Porthos firmly. “You can’t. Arelia said I had to learn to use my sight and she was right. Aramis’ll be there to drag me out if it comes to that.” He leant in close and folded his arms protectively around Athos. “Wait for us here.” No one was going to die today. Not on his watch.

“I will,” said Athos, looking up at him. “I’m really sorry, Porthos.”

“Don’t be,” said Porthos, pulling away a little, loathed to leave him in this state. “It’s not your fault.” He took another step back and it hurt. “We’ll be fine.”

“Be careful,” warned Athos and Porthos could feel his eyes on them as they were swallowed up by the twisted limbs of the trees.

“How long do I leave you?” asked Aramis as they approached the clearing, his hand clutching at his crucifix.

Porthos shrugged. When he was in a deep trance state he had no idea of the passing of time. “What does Athos do?” he asked.

Aramis drew in a deep breath. “He watches. He guards. I don’t know, Porthos.” He threw his arms in the air. “Haven’t you ever asked him?”

“Never thought I needed to,” said Porthos gruffly. Ever since he started doing this properly, as part of a research team, Athos had always been there to guide him back. He shuddered in a breath, fear and anxiety coming at him full force. It was just him against the world today, and he felt a panic attack nipping at his senses. “I’ve fucked everything up.”

“We’re all guilty of that,” said Aramis. “This isn’t a game. We’ve been stupid, messing around with stuff we don’t understand.”

Porthos nodded. “And now I’ve got to mess around some more.” He paused at the spot where the branches opened out. “Wish me luck, mate.”

“I’ll do much more than that; I’ll keep you safe,” promised Aramis. “As soon as I get the slightest bit worried, I’m pulling you straight out of there.”

Porthos wasn’t about to argue. Home, he thought as he entered the building. Home. Love. Comfort. It was all that mattered.

It was stifling inside the hut, all the moisture in the ground and the rotten timbers turnīng to a fetid steam. He sat on the floor, surrounded by dozens of faces but, this time, he’d learned enough not to open himself up to them completely.

They were furious that he’d abandoned them the first time and Porthos was battered by their anger, but stood his ground, taking strength from the flare of bruises as he thought of Athos, curled on the floor. He showed them images of what had happened and they calmed.

“You said you would help.”

“I tried,” said Porthos and he showed them what it felt like to wake from a trance, vomiting and frightened. He showed them Athos, unconscious and beaten. 

They bridled. “He is not who you say he is.”

“He’s mine,” said Porthos.

“He owns you.”

“We own each other,” said Porthos, proud and strong. “We love each other. Now tell me how I can help you, so he and I can go home.”

“This is what we want also.”

They had already shown Porthos their homes and their hopes and their desires, so now he needed to become their conduit. Letting his mind wander further, he understood. He was the connection but, without knowing it, Athos was a bridge.

It was dangerous and as he opened himself up more fully than he had ever done before he was thrown backwards, skin scraping against the dirt floor, bones smashing into wood as the full force of them poured through him. 

Aramis knelt over him, trying to pull him free, but Porthos warned him away with a raised hand.

“No,” he said, rough, broken, old. “It is good.” It was not his own voice that was coming from him. He tried to reassure Aramis, with clasped fingers and a steadying look.

The charge grew stronger, thousands of combined years of suffering alleviated by a link to home. Spiritual or extant, it didn’t matter. It was the same. Static, ecstatic, Porthos shuddered as they eventually left him, weak, earthbound and empty.

“Porthos.” Aramis was crying openly. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Promise me.” 

He collapsed forward, his forehead pressed against Porthos’ chest and Porthos held him, fingers threaded into sweaty strands of hair. No, this was anything but a game.

As they finally stumbled out into the sunshine, Porthos felt a renewed sense of clarity. He was purposeful rather than aimless, and falling to his knees, he looked around him at a clearing that was now free of death. Light headed, light spirited, he gazed up at the sky, Aramis’ arm looped around his shoulders, and breathed for the first time since they’d arrive in the bayou, heaving in deep lungfuls of moist air.

Why was he left with the cloying, organic grittiness of mud in his mouth?

“Something’s happened,” he said, barely able to spit the words out. Tired to the point of exhaustion, he used Aramis’ shoulder as a prop to push himself to standing. “Something’s happened to Athos.”


	24. Chapter 24

Forcing himself onwards, Porthos moved through the trees, tugging at the remnants of that broken link and letting it carry him to the lake. It was the place he’d deliberately stayed away from and, even from a distance, it stank of death and was ripe with memories. Memories? That couldn’t be right. Shattered and scared, something pulled him in, and he ran, faster and faster, with Aramis just a step behind him.

There was a body on the shore of the lake, drenched with water, face down in the mud. It was Athos, but he wasn't alone and Porthos came to an abrupt halt, trying to make sense of the picture.

“Aramis, stay away from there,” he yelled and, howling with rage, he threw himself forward, intent on protecting both men. As he did so, the murky shape that was surrounding Athos took on substance. No longer the colour of pond water, it fleshed out, becoming a solid, rotting mass before his eyes. 

Unaware of the danger that he was in, Aramis ran faster until he reached the bedraggled body at the water’s edge.

“He’s okay,” he called and Porthos tried to warn him, but the smell of death was choking him, smothering the words. 

He coughed out a cry of alarm. “Aramis. Get away from there. Please. Now.”

The corpse, wet, half rotten, crawled upwards from where it was covering Athos and barrelled into Aramis, tumbling him backwards into the lake water. “No!” it spat.

From where he lay supine in the shallows, Aramis looked up in disbelief at the thing that was crouched over him. It pressed its skeletal hands to his throat and sneered down at him, mouth twisted with decay. “Now do you understand the value of a pauper’s death on a cross?” 

Porthos ran to help, grabbing at the body, his fingers sinking deep into wet flesh that pulped like rotten fruit. It had substance and strength, too much of both, and it pushed him away, powerful, filled with old dirty magic.

Athos dragged himself on hands and knees to the lake, towards the thing that came from the lake. “I promised I would find you.” Laughing with delight, it took him into his arms, darkness sucking them down until they were submerged beneath the layer of scum.

“Aramis, help me,” Porthos cried, and between them they tore into the thing that had fastened itself around Athos until it fell back with a splash. Why, in God’s name, was it so real? “Fuck off and get away from him,” he snarled and lying back in the shallows, with Athos in his arms and Aramis beside him, he took strength from them both and opened a bridge. “Go,” he said, but he could feel the weight of darkness on the other side, a weight that pushed hard against him, too cold, too dreadful to dare touch, and, frightened, he broke the link.

“This is not death.” The thing that was once human mocked him. “I belong here and he belongs with me.”

“Not a chance,” said Porthos, and he kicked the creature away as it reached for Athos again.

“Please, God, help us,” said Aramis and he prayed, stumbling over words that he hadn’t made use of in years. Something, _something_ worked well enough to drive the thing back where it came from, buying them sufficient time to drag Athos out of the lake, all three of them collapsing to the muddy shore.

“We have to get him out of here,” said Aramis, standing up on shaky legs and helping Porthos to heft that inert body over a shoulder.

“Is he okay?”

“I- I think so,” said Aramis. “I’m sure he is.”

Porthos couldn’t cope with that hesitancy in his friend’s voice, and as soon as they were across the footbridge, he knelt and placed Athos carefully on the lawn.

The man coughed up lake water and opened eyes that were as blank as an empty page. “I promised.”

“Athos, for fuck’s sake, please. Tell me who you’re looking for.” Porthos shuddered, his tears disguised by mud. “We have to stop this from happening, and it’s the only thing I can think of that will help.”

“I don’t know,” said Athos, his eyes wide and helpless, but at least he was back with them. He coughed again, throwing up muddy water and Porthos could taste it brackish in his own mouth. “Thomas?” he murmured. “Is it Thomas?”

“Who’s Thomas?” said Porthos, leaning in close to hear Athos’ reply, but the words had dried up to nothing.

"What the fuck was that?” said Aramis, soaked in mud and kneeling on the grass as if he were still praying. Porthos hoped he was. It was the only thing that had worked for them so far. “What the fuck kind of ghost was that?”

“The not quite dead kind,” said Porthos gruffly, but was it a ghost? Did this place have the power of rebirth? Could it return something that bore a passing resemblance to life? If that was what the lake could do, then it was a terrifying thought. “Just help me get him inside, please.”

But Aramis wasn’t listening. “What is it you see that we don’t?” he demanded. 

“That’s something you seriously don’t want to know,” said Porthos with conviction. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone, certainly not his best mate.

“I need to know,” said Aramis, fingers locked around his crucifix as he stared at the house and then back at his friends. “I need to understand what’s happening. How can I help if you won’t tell me the truth?”

“I see death,” said Porthos simply, listening to the branch creaking behind him and wishing it were nothing more than the wind swaying the tree. “Everywhere I go, I see death and I hate it so fucking much.”

“Everywhere?” said Aramis, growing paler by the second.

“Pretty much,” said Porthos grimly. “Not like the thing we just saw down at the lake, but most places there’s something, even if it’s just the odd empty vessel. I give every hotel, every restaurant the once over before we decide to stay. Athos calls it my spook check.” Porthos looked down at his lover, who was cold and vacant: the recently departed.

“And what does he see?” asked Aramis.

“I have no idea what he sees, or what he feels,” said Porthos. “Problem is I don’t think he does either. I know he needs to learn to disconnect from it.”

Athos was still out of it as they helped him to his feet, but with an arm looped over each of their shoulders he was at least walking.

“Jesus Christ! What the fuck happened to you guys?” said d’Artagnan, jumping to his feet when he saw the state they were in.

“There’s something not very pleasant in the lake,” said Aramis, hanging on to Athos with one hand and his crucifix with the other. “I saw it. I touched it and it’s not alive. Though I’m not entirely certain that it’s dead.”

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos with a troubled expression on his face. “So, what was it?”

“Who was it, is the question I think we need to be asking,” said Porthos. More to the point, what did it want with Athos?


	25. Chapter 25

Soaked and filthy, Porthos helped Athos up the top flight of stairs and into the bathroom, ignoring the trail of wet mud they were leaving behind them. The man was walking wounded. Here, but not here. Shell shocked.

“Come on,” he muttered as he undressed them both and then led Athos into the shower to scrub away the mud. “You know I hate it when you’re like this.” He was all too familiar with it: drunk and vacant was not so different.

After getting them both dressed--Athos was behaving like a child, said a disloyal voice in Porthos’ head--he watched his boyfriend lie back on the bed and wondered, with an inappropriate sense of detachment, whether this was the start of his decline.

“Are you both decent?” said Aramis, poking his head around the wall at the top of the stairs.

“As you’ll ever find us,” said Porthos wearily, struck by a sudden feeling that this was the nightmare he was never going to wake up from.

His friends crowded around the bed like vultures pecking over a carcass. He shook his head. These were not his thoughts.

“Is he okay?” asked Aramis.

Porthos shrugged helplessly. “Look at him. He’s not even fucking here.”

“Give it a while,” said Aramis. “What happened there must have been a hell of a shock.”

For all of us, not just Athos, said that disloyal voice once again.

“There is some good news,” said d’Artagnan. “Constance has figured out where the binding originated from. Maybe it’ll help us understand what’s going on.”

“It was in the diaries,” said Constance with guarded enthusiasm. “Milady was so excited to be marrying this handsome young landowner, but she arrived here to discover that Olivier was in love with one of his slaves, a man called Isaac, and had no interest in Milady at all. Not even enough to try and conceive a child.”

“So?” said Porthos. People throughout history were homosexual: kings, commoners, criminals.

“The marriage continued for five years, but it was a total sham. By now, Olivier had fallen so deeply in love with Isaac that he wanted to pay Milady off and have her return to Paris,” explained Constance. “She refused to believe the truth and she was furious at the idea of being cast aside. She tried to make him jealous by sleeping with his brother, and when that didn’t work she turned to drastic measures.”

Constance looked around the room. “Here’s where it gets weird. She knew one of the slaves, Mkembe, practiced Voodoo so she went to him and demanded he do a spell for her, binding her and her husband together. The old man told her it needed blood magic to be worked and so, on the pretext of rekindling their affair, she lured Olivier’s brother into the attic room of Belle Isle and slit his throat, with Mkembe waiting there to do the conjuring.”

“And?” said Porthos.

“And that’s all we know,” said Constance, with a shrug. “There were no more diary entries after the spell was done.”

“But we’ve phoned the local newspaper in Thibodaux,” said Aramis. “And they’ve promised to dig out all the stories on Belle Isle for us. There’s got to be some way of undoing this curse.” He paused and looked around him.

“You all right, Aramis?” said Porthos.

“Yes.” The man looked over his shoulder again then shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. “I could have sworn there was someone leaning over me. Anyway, I think you should ask Arelia if she kno-”

All of a sudden he let out a strangled sound and clutched at his throat, the thick gold chain wrapping itself around his neck, and Porthos launched himself up from the bed, trying to release the coil of metal as d’Artagnan held Aramis, stilling his frantic hands. There was nothing more they could do to help when Aramis was ripped from them, his body slamming against the ceiling and then hurling itself at the wall. He landed in a heap, blood dripping from a wound on his temple, his wrist snapped back at an unnatural angle.

“Fuck!” cried Porthos, kneeling over the unconscious body of his best friend. “You two, get him to hospital now. I’ll sort Athos out and get Anne”--the name still stuck in his craw--”to drive us there to meet you.”

Constance looked on aghast, tears running in rivulets down her face. “Be careful with him,” she said as Porthos helped d’Artagnan lift Aramis into his arms. “Porthos, please get everyone out of here as soon as you can. I’m really scared.”

“Don’t worry,” said Porthos with feeling. “I’m not staying a moment longer than I have to."

“I’m beginning to think you have the right idea,” said Anne who was standing in the doorway. “The house is a horror story. I wish Arelia had burned it to the ground.” She side stepped to the left, allowing d’Artagnan to pass by her and head for the stairs. “The nearest hospital is in the centre of Thibodaux. There are plenty of signs for it. We’ll meet you there.”

“Thanks,” said Constance in a breathless voice as she raced after d’Artagnan. “Promise you’ll hurry.”

“Hurry is my new middle name,” said Porthos. “Phone me as soon as you know anything,” he called as he sat on the bed and swept the hair back from Athos’ face, kissing him on the forehead. “You have to wake up for me, Athos. No time for pissing around; we need to get out of here now. Come on.” Clasping both hands around his shoulders, Porthos shook him firmly enough to rouse him from his self induced trance.

Athos opened his eyes and stared at him. “One of us will die,” he said in that calm, slightly amused tone of voice which seemed horribly out of place. “None of us will leave.”

“We fucking well will.” Porthos filled with anger and shook Athos too hard. “Enough of this shit,” he said. “I’m seriously done with this place.”

The silence that followed his words was heavy enough to have a presence of its own. The birds and the insects hushed, and even the breeze dwindled away to nothing.

The house shuddered from its foundations upwards and as the light shimmered into an unnatural haze there was a crash from downstairs, followed by another and another, the sounds getting closer all the time.

“What’s happening?” cried Anne, collapsing onto the bed next to Porthos and grabbing at his arm. “Can you make it stop? Please make it stop.”

Porthos looked around him, his vision distorting as he tried to peer through the murk. He pulled at other two with the hope of making a run for it, but his feet were rooted and his body was set solid. 

The glass in the huge mirror began to crackle and spit as if it had caught alight and, with a spider’s web of transparent lines beginning to appear across the surface, something blood red formed in the centre and then began to snake out, wisps of smoke at first and then a dark mass of body, crimson turning to black, humming with life as it juddered towards them. Splitting into tendrils, it slithered forward, reaching into Anne, lifting her, filling her and, as it touched Porthos, he knew nothing more but the icy coldness of the deep earth.


	26. Chapter 26

He was in bed, the afternoon sun shimmering in through the windows, and, as usual, he was not alone.

“Isaac?” came the mistress’ voice from downstairs and he was about to answer when a finger pressed against his lips.

“Don’t say a word,” said Olivier. “She has no right to order you around when you’re mine.” He kissed Isaac on the mouth. “She’ll be gone soon. She’s accepted my offer. She’ll go back to Paris and you’ll be in my bed again, instead of me hiding in yours.”

Isaac wasn’t fussy. His own bed seemed a comfortable enough proposition, especially with Olivier wrapped around him within its boundaries. “Let us make the most of our time here then,” he said, running his hand over pale skin and dipping inside loose clothing.

“I love you. You do believe that?” said Olivier, as he rolled them over in the bed, freeing them from their garments until his cock was pressed tightly against Isaac's own.

“You cannot say that, master.” Isaac looked away, scared that this would end with him being flayed and hanged for his perversions. He _did_ love this man, though he knew well enough that he shouldn’t.

“Master of your heart, as you are master of mine,” smiled Olivier, rocking against him, slowly at first then with increasing speed and urgency as their need for each other grew stronger. 

The mistress' calls from downstairs would have to be heeded soon, and Isaac would answer them with the remains of her husband’s spendings wet on his skin, the taste of him sweet in his mouth. He had been warned by the other slaves that Milady was a cruel and wicked woman, but he paid them no attention. Love was a dangerous thing.

They climaxed one after the other and then stole a few extra moments to lie together and recover their senses. 

“Will she go?” Isaac asked.

Olivier looked pensive. “She says so and I have no reason to doubt her, but, if she does not, then we will chase her out and put her on the ship ourselves.”

He grinned suddenly and Isaac wished that his smile did not wield such power over him. They had been lovers for many years now and ownership no longer came into it. He would be freed the moment the mistress was gone, but he knew he would never leave.

“Isaac?” came the call from downstairs.

“I must go, or she will have me flogged,” he said.

“She would never dare,” said Olivier, watching Isaac clean himself with a rag. “I’ll see you up here tonight and we will be together as we should be.”

They could not bear to be apart for any length of time, their desire for each other growing ever more powerful, as if they were bound together by love.

Grudgingly, Isaac left the comfort of their attic sanctuary and went downstairs to see to Milady’s needs.

“Oh, there you are, Isaac,” she said sweetly. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Where have you been hiding yourself, as if I couldn’t guess? Cook needs you to go and pick some vegetables, and but before that I want you to go fishing. I have a desire for some catfish for supper. I’m sure they’ll be biting for you.”

Catfish? Isaac was sure catfish meant something other than food. Even so, this seemed an odd request from her. The mistress was more Parisian in her appetites, Olivier always said. Isaac had a feeling it meant fancy. Still, he wasn’t going to turn down the chance of an afternoon’s fishing at the lake.

“You must be thirsty after all your hard work in the house,” she said, handing him a tall glass of lemonade. “Have this before you leave.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, swallowing the cool drink in one go and grimacing at its bitter taste. He had a feeling she was trying to get into his good books so that he’d persuade Olivier to let her stay. Fat chance of that happening.

He took a slow walk down to the pond. The sun was beating down on his head and he wished for his old straw hat and loose dungarees. Things seemed wrong here. The shack with the fishing tackle was gone. The boat was here, but was broken and beached, its painter coiled free at the bow. He couldn’t make sense of things at all. When the pain hit him from behind, all went black, and he fell into the mud and tried to free himself, but was too sluggish and dizzy to fight. All he could do was breathe in mouthfuls of pond scum and dirt.

The tunnel was white and, this time, he could see all the way into it. The exit was a small glowing circle at the far end and it was drawing him in. There were voices, familiar ones calling him, and he wanted to go so very much, but there was a reason he must stay here. A very important reason, he thought, though he wasn’t, as yet, certain of what it was. 

Drifting up from his body, that’s when he knew. When he saw himself, Isaac, face down in the shallows. No, not Isaac, but Porthos. Saw Athos pull him out of the water, slam fists into his chest and press their mouths together. He could taste the tears of despair. Sick with rage, Athos dragged a laughing Anne away from the lake, the boat rope in his hand.

Porthos followed, ignoring the call of the light which was quieter in his head now that he had purpose. Crossing the footbridge, Athos knotted the rope into a noose and slipped it around Anne’s neck, as he hauled her ever closer to the oak tree in the middle of the lawn.

Summoning every ounce of spirit he had left, Porthos pushed himself into Athos, until he could taste him, feel him, breathe him in. “Please, don’t do this. This isn’t you. This isn’t real. I love you. I love you so much. We shouldn’t have come here. I should have listened to you.”

Lifting Anne with an arm, Athos lashed the rope around the branch and Porthos knew, with certainty, whose soul it was that had been watching them all the time from the oak tree. 

“This is wrong, Athos,” he said gently. “This will only hurt you. This isn’t what you need to do. Let Anne go. Let them both go.”

The rope now loosed from around her neck, Anne lay crumpled on the grass and Athos stared at Porthos, his eyes widening, his sight focusing.

“Let them go,” said Porthos and he watched with relief as the swinging corpse from the tree vanished first into mist and then to dappled sunshine.

“I love you,” said Athos and he smiled, but it was full of sadness and regret. 

For one brief, wonderful moment, the link between them was back, stronger than ever, and Porthos understood why they had been pulled apart to breaking point. But everything was good now and they were safe and sound, just as he’d promised Athos they would be. All they had to do was escape Belle Isle and go home. Everything was good until Porthos stumbled back, drawn on a magnet force that was too powerful to resist.

There were cars. There were people running. There were familiar voices saying things he couldn’t comprehend. Some, from the distance, were old and welcoming. Some belonged to him and he would miss them so much, but he couldn't go back. The bridge was already open and he was part way across. 

“I don’t want to leave you,” he begged. He could see Athos and taste the tears that were running down his face and he knew it was too late.

“I’m sorry, baby,” whispered Athos. “I’m so sorry.”

Porthos moved closer to cling on to him and never let go, but then he was gone, everything was gone and in its place was a sudden white-out brilliance and a sense of utter peace.


	27. Chapter 27

There was pain and cold and then a suffocating release of brackish swamp water as, for the second time in days, Porthos vomited to one side and looked up into Aramis’ frightened brown eyes.

“We could have lost you,” Aramis choked on tears of relief. “We would have done if it hadn’t been for Charon.”

Turning to his left, Porthos tried his best to rustle up a smile. “So, you’re the reason for this ruddy great pain in my chest.” He heaved again and brought up more water.

“I may have bruised a rib or two when I was trying to save your life,” said Charon. “Are you well enough to be moved? I’m sure Aramis and I can rig up a stretcher to carry you.”

“Not with this arm,” said Aramis, waving his plaster cast. “You’ll have to piggy back him up to the house.”

“I can walk,” growled Porthos. “I’ve had a knock on the head and a bit of a drowning. Nothing new there.” He sat up gingerly. “How did you know I was here, Charon?” Helped by the others, he stood on trembling legs and looked around him. The world seemed different somehow. New.

“My grandmother, of course,” said Charon. “She was visited by Miss Eloise who had broken free from the Loa Kalfu. Or so Mémé tells me.”

“Can we talk about this later? Someone’s mind needs putting at rest,” said Aramis. “You have a distraught man back at base camp, who’s utterly convinced you’re dead.”

“I was,” said Porthos in an undertone. “I was dead.” He stared around him in confusion. “I have a feeling I probably still am.”

“You’re not, Porthos. Far from it.” Aramis pressed a hand over Porthos’ heart and hugged him tightly. “You’re alive and you’re staying that way, if I have anything to do with it. So please, let’s get you safely back to Athos. I need to see a happy ending to this story.”

As shaky as a newborn foal, Porthos was finding it hard to put one foot in front of the other. At least he was until he saw Athos leaning against one of the greying doric columns, his face hidden from the world by the cover of a hand. Borrowing some strength from somewhere, Porthos hurtled forward and crashed into his arms.

“I’m here, love. I’m here. It’s all okay now. it’s fine. I promised you, didn’t I?” The words tumbled out in a flood.

Athos looked at him disbelievingly for a second and then his face crumpled and he sobbed out his misery and his happiness and his relief as Porthos held onto him, supported by the pillar and the very necessary weight of Athos’ love.

Porthos was unsure how long they remained locked together. He could sense the others nearby, but no one dared disturb them until a comforting voice came from the verandah.

“Enough of that, boys. You can put each other down now.”

Arelia was sitting on the swing seat, watching over them both with a grandmotherly smile on her face. “This is heartwarming, indeed,” she said, “but we have a lot of work to do before you can run off together and go catfishing.”

Porthos looked at her, his eyes widening. “But it’s finished,” he said. “It must be.” He stared up at the house which seemed skewed somehow, a dark hulk of a beast, looming over them.

“Sorry, children, but you have not ended the binding yet,” said Arelia. “For that to happen, the three of you have to go in there and conjure up the Loa.”

“Three of us?” said Porthos in confusion.

“I think she means me as well,” said Anne who was sitting close by on the verandah rail, an apprehensive smile on her face. “It sounds terribly lame, but, Porthos, I’m really sorry I tried to kill you.”

“No hard feelings.” Porthos shrugged, patting the tender lump on the back of his head. “I think we all have a few apologies to make, after the way we’ve been behaving lately.”

“It is rather embarrassing in the cold light of day,” said Athos, his face turning crimson.

However rough he was feeling, Porthos was suddenly on top of the world. Tugging Athos against him, he again looked askance at Arelia, who was swinging on the seat, humming away to herself. “Mémé, it seems to me as if everything’s already been put right,” he said. “Are you sure we have to do this?”

“It’s right for now,” she said. “But I know-”

“You know what you know,” interrupted Porthos.

“That I do, child.”

“But, how can I do a conjuring when I’ve lost my sight?” he asked bluntly. Athos looked around at him in concern, but Porthos smiled in reassurance and nuzzled into his hair. It had been slowly dawning on him since he’d come back. He understood the reason why the world seemed so much brighter. He was no longer weighed down by death.

“You haven't lost a thing,” chuckled Arelia. “You have eyes, Porthos. Be happy with them. They’ll show you all you need to know. You have feelings. Learn to use them and you will be a wise and helpful man.”

“Are you young folks ever coming to meet with me, or do I have to get my dog to fetch you in like a bone?” said a crackly voice echoing from the interior of Belle Isle.

It reminded Porthos of a scratched gramophone record, older than time itself, and he leaned around the side of the column to peer cautiously into the doorway.

Arelia chuckled. “Do as he says, children.” She smiled encouragingly at all three of them. “You’ll be fine.”

The interior of the house was as lopsided and out of place as it had looked from the outside. Porthos held on tightly to Athos’ hand and was surprised to feel another smaller one clasping his left.

“I hope you don’t mind,” murmured Anne. “But if we could put all attempted murders to one side for now, I could do with some moral support and I didn’t want to cause any more marital disharmony.”

Porthos laughed. “Maybe in time, you and I could get to be friends,” he said.

“Let’s not push it,” she said with a smirk. “By the way, has anyone noticed this is not my house?”

The stark whiteness was gone. The walls were panelled and the floors were covered in thick rugs.

“I prefer it this way,” said a voice from the lounge room. “Now come here and talk to me.”

Porthos’ heart beat out a drum solo in his chest. He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but he had a pretty good idea, and meeting gods from any religion was not an everyday occurrence.

“Come on,” said Athos, taking a stride forward. “Seriously, could anything worse happen today?” He looked back at the others and raised an amused eyebrow.

Porthos bellowed with laughter, slightly hysterical admittedly, but still real.

Papa Legba, if it was indeed him and not some crazy old man in fancy dress, was sitting in the rattan chair, his leg hooked jauntily over an arm. His crutch was leaning against the door, his straw hat was on his lap and if it wasn’t for a pair of blood red eyes then there would be nothing out of the ordinary to see.

“I thought we were supposed to conjure you,” said Porthos.

“You conjure me. I conjure you,” said the old man. “It’s all the same in the end. It’s all about asking for help.” He flicked a dog treat in the air and his terrier leapt up to catch it.

“So conjuring is asking then?” said Athos.

“Conjuring is thought,” said Legba, grinning at Athos with a mouthful of sharp white teeth. “And you think deeply. Too deeply for your own good. Think clear from now onwards.”

“Can you help us unbind the house?” said Anne.

“Like all good women, you head straight for the point.” Legba nodded appreciatively. “I can undo the spell, but only because the blood magic worked here was wrong. It was done to cause harm, and it was done as a lie. The mistress wanted love and she got much more than she bargained for. She was not always a wicked woman. She was a woman scorned and we all know how dangerous that can be?” He looked from Porthos to Athos and cackled with delight. “Or maybe some of us don’t.”

“So, what can we do to put things right?” said Porthos, not altogether comfortable discussing his relationship status with an ancient Voodoo god.

Legba looked at Athos. “You have already freed the soul of the mistress and Kalfu will not be pleased at your interference, but, do not worry, I will talk him around.” He shook his head. “He has wrongfully taken possession of the second spirit and has brought life back to the third. Kalfu is my dark half and while he takes the souls of the blackest, he is honour bound to free those who have caused no deliberate harm to others.”

“So what do we do?” said Porthos again.

“You are always wanting to _do_ something, Porthos,” smiled the old man through his grill of pointed teeth. “You put yourself in constant danger because of it, and the Graveyard Barons are not ready to dance at your funeral just yet. Sit back for once, and I will intercede on your behalf.” He stood up, bowed and then reached for his crutch. “Be good, children,” he said and lifting up an arm he was drawn into the void that had once been the painting of Belle Isle. With a yip of delight, the dog followed after him.

“Well, “ said Anne. “That was odd to say the least.” She glanced at them both. "Tomorrow, I'll arrange to have the lake dredged. Isaac deserves a proper burial. But for now-" Her words were interrupted as the whole place began to creak and groan around them.

Once again, the house shifted on its foundations and, as the room filled with that ancient dark magic, Athos jumped to his feet.

“Where are you going?” said Porthos.

“Packing,” said Athos with a slight quirk of the lips. “I’ve had enough of Belle Isle.” As huge cracks opened up and began to zigzag across the walls like bolts of lightning, he looked at Anne. “I hope you’re well insured.”

She smiled. “I am, but I doubt it covers acts of gods.”

“What’s happening?” shouted Aramis from the doorway.

“We’re packing,” answered Porthos from halfway up the stairs. “And I reckon you should do the same unless you want your passport falling down a sink hole to hell.”


	28. Chapter 28

After the horrors of the day, the Good Eats diner was a welcome haven with its familiar comfort of cracked formica tables and torn leather bench seats.

“Porthos, buddy, I really think you should go to the hospital,” said d’Artagnan. “Isn’t it pretty important to get a check up after a near death experience?”

“It was a death experience,” said Athos, aiming a stern look at Porthos. “And for once, I agree with d’Artagnan.”

“Bollocks,” said Porthos, pouring the beers. He ached all over and he had an annoying cough, but he was here and he was bloody well staying here. “I tell you what, I promise I’ll go see the doc next time I die.”

“Don’t you dare even say it in jest,” said Athos, leaning in and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Things do always come in threes,” laughed Aramis, his arm draped around Porthos’ shoulder.

“Sod off, Aramis.” Athos whacked him over the head with a spoon. “I’ve only tried to hang someone once, so does that mean I have two more goes left?”

Far from feeling morbid, Porthos was ridiculously happy. Everything was so fucking perfect he could cry. He listened to his boys argue--Christ knows what Clarissa thought of the conversation--and revelled in being here, safe, tucked in between them.

“So, guys,” said d’Artagnan. “We have two halves of a story here. D’you think it’s time we tried to match them up?”

Athos’ fingers edged nearer to make contact with Porthos’ hand and they exchanged a glance. Things had happened today that couldn’t be explained, that seemed too personal to be shared until they’d had a chance to talk them through.

“It was all a bit weird,” said Porthos cagily. “We weren’t ourselves.”

“Really?” Constance looked at him, her eyes full of curiosity. “Once we were certain Aramis was going to be fine I went to the newspaper office and collected these.” She took a wad of photocopies out of her handbag. “Have a look at them.” She pushed a paper towards them. “This one first.”

Porthos looked down at the paper and somebody walked over his grave. Mysterious double tragedy of prominent Louisiana family, the headline read. Having hanged his wife for unknown reasons, Olivier Chapelle took his own life in the attic of their Thibodaux home.

“There’s no mention of Isaac,” said Porthos, scanning through the text. “His body was never found. I think Anne’s right to dredge the lake.” He was just a slave, and the death of a slave would mean nothing but monetary loss to most plantation owners, but to Olivier it would have been the end of his world. 

“It repeated itself,” said Constance, “A number of times over the years, but the Chapelle family paid well to keep the scandal under wraps. The articles were written and then hushed up.”

Porthos looked through at the dreadful cycle of murders and deaths. 

“As soon as we saw the pattern emerging, I discharged myself from hospital and we raced back here,” said Aramis. “But If it hadn’t been for Arelia and Charon.”

“If it hadn’t been for all of you,” said Porthos, with a huge amount of feeling.

Athos turned to face Porthos. “If it hadn't have been for you I would have killed Anne,” he said in a low voice. “You brought me back before I did something terrible.” He stared down at the table and Porthos could feel him trembling. “Then I did something terrible to you. I sent you over.” He gulped back the tears. “How could I have done that? I’m such a fuck up.”

Porthos wished he had the power to transport them out of here somewhere private. This wasn’t the kind of conversation to be having in a diner in front of a bunch of friends, however well intentioned they were. He wrapped Athos up in his arms and kept his words to a barely audible whisper.

“Please listen to me, love,” he said. “You’re not a fuck up. You’re so far from that. What you did was out of kindness and strength. It was the right thing to do.” He kissed Athos on the lips. “Would you have really wanted me haunting you forever?”

The murmured, yes, broke Porthos into bits and now he too was crying. “Athos, we’re here now and we’re together and we love each other. Everything’s bloody brilliant, okay? We’ll go home and we’ll stay in bed forever, just like we said we were going to do.”

Athos eventually disentangled himself from Porthos’ arms. He was tear stained but dry eyed, which was more than could be said for Porthos at the moment. “I need to go to France,” he said. “To la Fère.” He reached out his hands to Porthos and Aramis. “And I need you both with me.”

“Of course,” said Porthos, kissing him again.

“Always, chéri,” said Aramis. “Anything for you.” He wiped his face with a sleeve, so distracted he almost used his plaster cast as a handkerchief instead. “I think we need a bottle of bourbon over here now.” He looked around the table. “No objections from anyone, I take it?”

Porthos shook his head. If anyone deserved to get hammered tonight it was them.

“You folks look as if you’ve had one helluva day,” said Clarissa, bringing over a bottle of Jack and five shot glasses. She took in their muddy clothes and war wounds. “Been wrestling gators?”

“Something like that,” smirked Aramis. But a little bigger and a lot more spiteful.” Laughing at him in disbelief, she took away the tray loaded with empties, leaving room on the table for Aramis to pour the first round of shots. “To us,” he said, clinking glasses. “By the way, what did happen in that house afterwards?”

Porthos hooked Athos in close and kissed the top of his head. “That’s something you _won’t_ believe, mate.”

“And I’ll never be drunk enough to tell the story,” smirked Athos, composure regained.

~*~

The Bates motel may have been prison grim and basic, but it had clean sheets, a decent sized tub to soak in and a room that wasn’t filled, from floor to ceiling, with black magic. Porthos was the happiest man in the world, stretched out on the bed with a belly full of food, a pleasant buzz going on and Athos naked in his arms. Life couldn’t get better.

“So we’ve fucked in public and now we’ve sobbed our hearts out in public,” said Athos. “Is there any way we can get through this with a shred of dignity left intact?”

“They love us. All is fine.” Porthos cuddled into Athos’ side and let out a loud rumble of contentment.

“Porthos?”

“Yes, love.” Whiskey usually sent Athos to sleep, but tonight it was turning him into a chatterbox, just when Porthos could have done with some kip.

“It must be strange for you without the sight.”

“It is a bit, but I’ll get used to it,” said Porthos, thinking it over. “It’s peaceful.” At least it would be if someone close by would shut up.

“That’s good. I’m glad.” Athos stretched out flat on his back and looked up at the ceiling. “You didn’t feel in any way coerced, did you?”

Porthos wasn’t following. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Us. Sex. Belle Isle.”

Porthos pictured himself spread open on the bed, legs raised like a whore, aching for Athos’ touch, and despite his utter exhaustion, he swelled at the memory.

“Porthos?” 

“I’m thinking about it,” he said in a gruff voice, and taking Athos’ hand he laid it gently over his cock which was thickening and lengthening by the second. “Does this seem like a sign of coercion?”

“I don’t know.” Athos’ words came in short staccato bursts.

Porthos huffed in a breath, need tinged with exasperation, and turned fully onto his back, pulling his knees up. This position made the ache in his chest tighter but he wanted Athos, Athos alone, to know how excited he was by him. “Make me come,” he said.

“You’re too tired,” said Athos, but Porthos could feel him tremble with need.

“Make me come and then I’ll sleep,” he said.

Athos knelt between his legs, licking a tortuous path over him, from arse to balls along to the slit of his cock. Worrying the tip of his tongue into the tiny opening, he sucked out the slow leak of fluid until Porthos was heavy breathing and grunting low in his throat.

A finger, no, it was a thumb that slipped inside him first, twisting and rolling, until he was spreading himself further open, canting his hips and eager for more.

Fingertips worried at him, gliding through him, and, hot with a bright flush of shame, he came undone. The burn signalled the end of his inhibitions and he begged for more with words he would have never dreamt of using before this, vulnerable private words that made him curl with joy from the pleasure they brought to Athos’ face.

“Stroke yourself,” said Athos, wetting Porthos’ hand with oil and spilling some extra over his.

“Come over me and I will,” said Porthos, wanting to be marked again by those heavy stripes of semen.

With one hand buried inside Porthos, the other pulling at himself, Athos knelt up close, skin touching skin, sighs of arousal turning to grunts of need.

The soft scratch of a fingernail against that pressure point inside him was too much, and with a loud wail of delight, Porthos came in thick splashes, gripping Athos and rucking against his hand. 

“Fuck!” Athos curved impossibly far back, spine arching into a bow, and Porthos watched intently, taking a voyeur’s pleasure in the sight and feel of his orgasm.

When they were done, lying messy together in bed, Porthos kissed Athos hard on the mouth.

“D’you see now how much you don’t need to worry?” he kissed him again and again. “It was never about force,” he explained. “My inhibitions needed to be lost and you took them and tore them into shreds.”

“That doesn’t sound too good,” said Athos solemnly.

“Believe me it’s good,” smiled Porthos. “It’s brilliant. I’ll never be worried about asking you for anything.” Sex with Athos was beautiful, magical a lot of the time, but this was different. This was being taken apart and put back together again and, up until now, Porthos hadn’t a clue how much he’d needed it. “Did you think about doing this before Belle Isle?”

Athos blushed and nodded.

“Then it’s something we both want, isn’t it? Something good that’s come out of this nightmare.”

With the lights out and Athos asleep next to him, Porthos allowed himself a private moment to worry. They’d survived the impossible, but whether they’d managed to do so intact remained to be seen. It wasn’t over yet.


	29. Chapter 29

Camper van and motorbike now returned to the rental company, the five of them waited in the departure lounge of the airport for two different flights.

“You’re sure it’s okay to send our luggage with the equipment?” said Porthos, throwing his cardboard Starbucks cup in the bin.

“Of course it is,” said Constance. “It’s all going as air freight. What’s the difference?”

With just a rucksack as carry on, Porthos felt naked. He slumped into his seat, staring blindly at the departure board. At times, it had seemed like they were never going to escape Louisiana and now that they had, it was a wretched anticlimax. Everything here was too real, too ordinary. Children were running around in Mickey Mouse ears, crying and throwing Coke over the tiled floor. The world was brighter, but emptier.

“You’ll be leaving before us,” said d’Artagnan, folding his arms in disgust. “I knew we should have booked a flight to London rather than Birmingham. There’s two Heathrow flights been called already since we’ve been sitting here.”

“Stop whining,” said Constance. “There you go, you three. Paris is up.”

There were hugs for them all. Even Athos was included and he had always remained on the periphery in the past. He was still silent though and Porthos knew he was working himself up into a state, dreading what was coming.

“I think it’s time you told us what we’re going to find at la Fère,” he muttered as they strapped themselves in. This time, Athos was in the middle, in the safe seat, and Porthos wondered, for a second, whether they’d all lived in each other’s pockets for too long. There was an instinct between the three of them, an unspoken communication which had grown much deeper over the past week. It had nothing to do with spiritual links, or a preternatural sixth sense. It was simply a bond of friendship and love.

“Can it wait until we reach France?” said Athos. He picked up the in flight magazine, thumbing through the pages mindlessly, and was so lost to his thoughts that he wasn’t even aware that the plane had taken off, surprised when the attendant came around with the trolley and asked him what he’d like to drink.

Bourbon was the answer. It went down like a shot of medicine and Porthos watched as Aramis did the same. What the hell, he thought, and swallowed his own just as quickly, feeling the burn as it hit his guts.

There was a question he’d been meaning to ask d’Artagnan before they’d left and, stupidly, he’d forgotten to do so. It was a nagging worry, at a time when he needed to be clear headed. “Do we know how much of this story is going to be written up as a research project?” he asked.

Aramis shrugged and looked downhearted. “Most of it, I suppose. The grant money paid for our adventures, and the results are exactly what they were looking for.” He paused. “But it’s so personal.”

“Yeah,” agreed Porthos and Athos nodded.

“I feel as if my entire belief system has been rebooted.” Aramis managed a smile. “I don’t know whether to give up my faith altogether, or become a priest.”

“Neither, mate,” said Porthos. “Just keep on going. That’s what we all have to do.”

“I think that’s where I’ve been going wrong,” said Athos quietly.

Worried by this, Porthos took hold of his hand. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Athos answered, giving Porthos’ fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s see what happens in France.” His smile didn’t come close to being real.

“What happens in France, stays in France,” laughed Aramis, reaching for Athos’ other hand. “You’re freezing,” he said. “I’ll ask the attendant for a blanket.”

Porthos closed his eyes and tried not to think of the cold deep earth and the smell of the graveyards.

~*~

Eight hours later they arrived in Paris, all three men looking around in bewilderment and wondering what they were supposed to do next. It was nine o'clock in the morning here, but to them it was still those deathly hours in the dead centre of the night.

“Is there somewhere for us stay near your place?” said Aramis and when Athos didn’t reply immediately, he added: “You have a think about it and I’ll get some Euros from the cash machine.”

“Can we stay at yours?” said Porthos. It was wrong to call it a house, but it seemed equally ridiculous to call it a chateau.

Athos shivered. “Porthos, I haven’t been back there in years. I doubt whether anyone has.” He looked around him searching for an escape route, or more likely a bar. “This was a bad idea, I think.”

“It was the right idea and you need to do it,” said Porthos. “Now, let’s find Aramis and get moving. Or at least think about how to get moving.”

“It’s worrying,” said Athos.

“What is?” Porthos slid an arm around his waist.

Athos smirked. “How completely incompetent we are without Constance.”

Porthos relaxed. “We should never leave home without her.”

“We should never leave home, full stop,” said Athos.

“That’s my boys. Smiling again, just as you should be,” said Aramis, draping an arm around each of them, the plaster cast a comforting weight across Porthos’ shoulder. “Now, tell me, do we have a plan yet?”

“Yeah.” Porthos grinned. “We either phone Constance and ask her what to do, or we wing it.”

Aramis looked at his watch. “Seeing as she’ll be in the middle of the Atlantic right now, it seems we have no choice.”

“Is it far to la Fère?” asked Porthos.

Athos shook his head. “There isn’t a station nearby and I have no idea about buses, so we’ll have to get a taxi,” he said leading them off to the ranks, his familiarity with Charles de Gaulle coming back to him. The scenery might change in these termini, but the layouts always remained the same.

There were plenty of cabs waiting in the bays, and in a few minutes they were packed into a Škoda, rucksacks filling the space between Porthos and Aramis, Athos sitting up front to direct the driver. 

With the other two shifting so easily between French and English, Porthos was feeling left out and slightly bewildered. He watched the city landscape turn to an urban sprawl then flatten out into farmland, and, yawning, he rested his head against the window and let his eyelids droop.

“Wake up, dozy,” said Aramis, nudging him gently. “God, you’re really out for the count.”

Porthos opened his eyes and tried to see past the fog of sleep. “Where are we?”

“At la Fère.” Aramis poked him to make sure he didn’t nod off again. “We’ve stopped off once already at a supermarket for supplies and you never even noticed.”

Porthos could hear Athos chattering away to the driver. He didn’t quite belong to him when they were in France and it was an odd feeling. He’d only just got him back and he didn’t want to lose him again so soon. 

Looking around, he saw that they were parked in a country lane, right outside a set of wide wooden gates. The stone walls on either side were crumbling, a mesh of ivy twisting its tendrils around the blocks and pulling them apart. It was a picture of utter neglect. 

Rubbing his eyes, he climbed out of the car then reached in for his and Athos’ rucksacks. “So, here we are at the ancestral home. What now?”

“We go in,” said Aramis, packing food, drink and torches into all three rucksacks and shoving the carrier into a pocket.

The gates were chained up and fastened with a heavy padlock. “I s’pose it’s too much to hope that you have a key?” said Porthos.

Athos, who’d been lost in a world of his own, shook himself back to the present and rummaged in his pockets.

Porthos had often seen the strange mismatched keys on the set Athos carried around with him, but he’d never taken much notice of them. He watched Athos undo the padlock. As the thick chain slithered away, it fell to the ground with a deadened clunk and the man stood, frozen in time, staring at what had once been his childhood home.

“I think you have to open them now,” said Porthos gently, his hand pressed to the base of Athos’ spine.

Athos looked first at him and then at the driveway, and it seemed so much like their arrival at Belle Isle, that Porthos wanted to snatch him up and steal him away from this place. This time, though, Athos managed a wan smile and, heaving in a breath, he pushed at the gates, then again, a little harder this time, when they seemed unwilling to yield to him. Eventually, with an anguished groan, they relented, swinging wide to greet them and, behind Athos’ back, Porthos and Aramis exchanged a nervous glance.

“I haven’t been here since the day my mother was taken to hospital,” said Athos as he set off at a slow walking pace along the drive. “The drugs didn’t have any effect on her and she was still screaming when they strapped her to the stretcher and carried her into the ambulance. I wouldn’t go with her.”

As the path curved around a slowly undulating bend, a wide grey house came into view and it wasn’t at all how Porthos had imagined it to be. It was hardly a fairytale castle, and resembled an old derelict manor, paint peeling off its walls, shutters torn away by the occasional winter storms that must have lashed the building over the years.

“She blamed me because she didn’t want to leave here. She was happy in her psychosis. I think she enjoyed it.” Athos flicked through the ring and selecting a decorative black iron key he unlocked the front doors. “Once she’d gone, I threw away all the food from the kitchen, then I packed some stuff and left. I never intended to come back.” He put the rucksack down just to the inside of the doors, as if making ready for escape. “Welcome to la Fère.”

Crossing the threshold of Athos’ past, Porthos took a step inside and looked around him. It was dark and dusty, and feeling as if he’d slipped back centuries in time, he took in the ancient stone fireplace and antique furniture.

“My father wouldn’t allow any unnecessary changes,” said Athos. “We were guardians not owners, he used to say.” He laughed bitterly. “So, I’ve taken him at his word.” He opened the shutters and then moved through from room to room allowing la Fère into the light for the first time in years.

“This place is awful,” muttered Aramis.

Porthos nodded. He’d grown up in London, sharing a tiny flat with his mum and his grandad and it had been small and shabby, but it had been home. “Was it just you and your parents here?” he asked.

“My mother wasn’t well enough to do anything, so there were staff,” said Athos, staring out of the window at a vast lake that lay to the rear of the property. “But I had a brother.” He paused for a long time and Porthos attempted to hug him, but he sidestepped away from the embrace, arms wrapped tightly around himself. “Can you hear him? I can still hear him.”


	30. Chapter 30

“I can’t hear anything,” said Porthos. Maybe he could have done before, but that was dependent on so many things. “Tell us about him.”

“Thomas was eight years younger than me and he was everyone's favourite, mine included.” Athos turned away from the window and sat on a side table, his hands making ghostly prints in the dust. “My father wasn’t fond of me. He didn’t want a son with a facial disfigurement. Even when my lip was repaired, he could never quite look at me. I think he only ever saw the scar and remembered how ugly I was as a baby.”

Porthos couldn’t speak. All he wanted to do was kiss that pretty mouth and make up for years of rejection. Second hand pain sat leaden in his belly.

“Then he was an ugly man,” said Aramis.

“He was at heart, I suppose,” said Athos. “He was also typically French and had dozens of lovers. Once, when I saw another child in the village with a cleft lip, I wondered if she was my sister.” He smiled at the memory. “Anyway, when Thomas was born, he was perfect: a little prince, the son my father had always wanted. That he thought he deserved.”

“What happened to Thomas?” asked Porthos. If Athos could free himself of this, then he would stand a chance of healing.

“No one knows,” said Athos, looking up.

“What do you mean?” asked Aramis, stepping forward to place his hand on Athos’ arm.

Athos didn’t pull away, but Porthos could see that he wanted to. Concerned, he tugged at Aramis’ jacket and encouraged him to move back a pace. Without his space, Athos was likely to turn tail and run, figuratively more than literally, but it would have the same effect in the end.

Athos glanced quickly at Porthos and there was gratitude in his eyes. “I used to be responsible for entertaining Thomas. He was a live wire, and it was a full time job to keep him occupied. I didn’t mind doing it most of the time, and I suppose he got used to me being at his beck and call. But one day...” He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was autumn, a similar time of year to this.” Porthos could see him counting in his head: days, weeks, months without his brother. Years turning to decades. “He was seven, and seven year olds are extremely annoying at times. He wanted me to play with him outside, but it was raining and I was reading. I didn’t want to be bothered with him.”

Porthos hated hearing this guilt pouring off Athos. Teenagers were supposed to do their own thing. They were supposed to be difficult and go tombstoning and drown themselves in canals. They weren’t supposed to be old before their time.

“He went off in a sulk. I thought he’d go and play with his Lego, or draw an angry picture of his nasty big brother.” Athos blinked hard, but his eyes were still dry. “We didn’t know he was missing until he didn’t come to the table for dinner. I thought he was still in a bad mood and I went to find him upstairs.” He paused again, but this time for longer. “I can’t,” he said and his words were a strangled moan of despair.

Porthos reached out a hand and was relieved when Athos took it. “Yeah, you can. Go on.”

“However much I tried to hide from this, it still hurt," said Athos wearily. "The only good thing about Belle Isle was that I didn’t have to carry it around with me all the time.”

“Tell us and you won’t ever have to carry it again,” said Aramis in a whisperer's voice.

Athos looked at them both. His eyes were packed with pain, but they were also full of implicit trust. “I knew he was outside when I saw his boots and coat were gone. I told my father and he was so angry that I thought he was going to hit me. He’d only ever been cruel with words before. He didn’t, but he did call me all the names under the sun. We fetched torches and we went to look for Thomas. My mother was weeping and wailing, carrying on as usual, and we left her at the house, broken down in despair. No one here ever gave a damn about anyone but Thomas. It was a cold place to live.”

Heartless, thought Porthos, but he wasn’t going to say it.

“We hunted the grounds for hours and when we couldn’t find him, the police were informed. Everyone searched all night and found nothing. My father insisted he was alive and had been kidnapped and it was dreadful, reporters everywhere, detectives asking questions. It was dreadful, because I knew he was dead. I could hear him, running through the house laughing and when I looked at my mother, I could tell that she could hear him too. We both went mad that day, I think. I blocked everything out and she listened until it sent her insane.”

“And no one ever found Thomas?” asked Aramis.

“No.” Athos shook his head.

Aramis looked at Porthos and then at the window and Porthos know what he was implying. Athos had mistaken Isaac for Thomas. It was the obvious connection. “What about the lake?” he asked.

Athos shook his head. “Despite the fact that my father was insistent that Thomas was alive, the police dredged it thoroughly.” He looked at them helplessly. “I thought he’d be gone by now, but I can still hear him.”

“Hush,“ said Porthos taking him into his arms and stroking his back. “There was no evidence of kidnapping?”

“No, not a trace,” said Athos, his voice muffled by the soft cotton of Porthos’ shirt. “Months later, when the police told my father they were giving up the search he went apoplectic. It was too much for him and he had a heart attack soon after. My mother was mad with grief and unable to cope. I arranged his funeral but I wouldn’t speak at it. I couldn’t eulogise over him.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Aramis. Being angry with a dead man on a friend’s behalf was pointless, but Porthos could understand.

“People crawled out of the woodwork to be nice to the poor boy who’d lost his brother and his father within such a short space of time. “ Athos shrugged. “But they didn’t know me, and no one knew how to help so I was left here in this place with the staff and the ghosts, watching my mother slowly decline into madness. It took two years to convince the doctors to section her.”

Unable to hold back any longer, Aramis became a part of the protective huddle. “I’m sorry for all the stupid, thoughtless things I’ve said in the past. Forgive me.”

“You haven’t. There’s no need. There’s nothing to forgive,” said Athos, compressed between them. “Thank you for being here.”

Aramis felt everything too deeply and Porthos loved him all the more for it. Pulling him closer, with Athos locked between them, they stayed like this for an immeasurable amount of time, and when they finally broke apart, it was with an unwillingness to let each other too far out of reach.

“There's a pensionne in the village,” said Athos. “We passed it on the way in.”

“Are you trying to run away?” said Porthos.

“Maybe a little.” Athos blushed and looked down at his feet. “I might be back here, but I still have no idea what to do.”

“You came looking for resolution, chéri,” said Aramis. “Escaping is probably not the best idea you’ve ever come up with.” He rested his hands on Athos’ shoulders, looking him square in the eyes with a smile of encouragement on his face. “It’s early still. We’ll spend the day here and see how you feel later.”

“We’ll work something out. We always do.” Porthos was grateful for Aramis’ determined presence. He and Athos always had a tendency to rub each other up the wrong way, but today, Aramis was being sensitive, yet strong and supportive when needed. It had been a shock hearing about Athos’ past, but at least Porthos had been forewarned. For Aramis it had come entirely out of the blue.


	31. Chapter 31

It was hard to believe this place belonged to a family. There were no photographs in frames, just ancestral portraits. There was a library of classic books, but no television to watch. The kitchen was not the heart of the home, but instead, a functional space for the staff to prepare their meals. Porthos longed to see some evidence of an ordinary life.

It was a relief to step into Thomas’ room, which was a muddle of toys: dinosaurs and Lego blocks all mixed up with Meccano and Playdoh. His sheets were still thrown back in a tangle and when Athos sank onto the bed in despair, just for a moment, Porthos thought he could hear a child’s laughter.

“You were a good brother,” he said, sitting next to Athos.

“Not good enough.”

Aramis had been flicking through the little boy’s stack of drawings. “No pictures here of a nasty big brother,” he said, passing them to Athos.

Porthos looked across at a scrawl of multicoloured crayon, all of them adventurous stories about pirates and treasure. All of them about Athos and Thomas.

Athos stared at the pictures for a while, then cast them disconsolately to one side. “I should know where he went. This is pointless.” 

Getting up, he strode out of the room and away down the corridor and, leaving him alone to cope with his moment of grief, the other two carried on exploring.

The parents had slept separately: the mother’s a sick room, the father’s an immaculate example of military precision with medals in cases and uniform still hung up in the wardrobe.

Athos’ bedroom was devoid of personality. Apart from a battered acoustic guitar, a Discman and some cd’s, there was nothing to show that anyone had ever lived in here. Porthos flicked through the music: Nirvana, Silverchair, Pearl Jam, Stone Temple Pilots. It was the only thing that was remotely normal, although in all the years he’d been a friend and then a lover to Athos, he’d never seen the man show any interest in rock, or any other type of music for that matter. It must have died here with Thomas.

“What were you doing when you were this age?” asked Aramis.

“Mucking about with my mates,” said Porthos. “Chasing girls.” Trying to come to terms with the sight.

“I came from a big, noisy, Catholic family,” said Aramis. “It was all fights and fun and my mother’s massive dinners. I loved them all, however much they annoyed me.”

Porthos understood. He’d met several members of Aramis’ family when they’d been over to visit. Athos, in contrast, was a stranger. “If I love him so much, then how could I have missed this?”

“Because he’s Athos and he hid it from everyone,” said Aramis. “It hurt, so he put it away somewhere inside and he never let it out.”

“What a stupid, selfish-”

Aramis dragged him onto a fierce hug. “He didn’t do it to upset you.”

“Not him, me,” said Porthos in despair. “All these years he’s been falling apart and drinking himself into a coma and I never thought to ask him why.”

“Porthos.” Aramis rested his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder. “This is Athos we’re talking about. The man of stone. We’ve talked to him until we were blue in the face in the past, you know that. But think about it, lovely, he’s trusting us now with this. We’re the only people he’s ever dared tell.”

“He wants me to help him,” said Porthos. “And I’ll help him, even if it kills me.”

“Fine, but no more dying, please,” said Aramis, falling backwards onto the bed, a cloud of dust leaping out in terror. “My poor heart can’t take it.”

“Come on.” Porthos offered him a hand. “I need to find him to see how how he’s bearing up, and I’m not wandering around this place on my own.”

Athos was downstairs, trying to get a fire going in one of the smaller reception rooms. “It gets really cold here,” he said. “The wood’s a bit damp, but I think it’ll burn. The chimney’s bound to be in a state so we may have to open a window.” A crackle and a spit emanated from the grate. “There we go.”

He stood up, watching as the flames began to catch and burn orange, and Porthos came over to stand behind him, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him on the neck.

“Stop being romantic in the firelight,” said Aramis. “Remember, I’ll be sleeping with you tonight and I don’t want to hear any strange noises.”

“We’re definitely not going to the pensionne then?” Athos turned slightly in Porthos’ arms, hoping for some backup, but Porthos could already see him shoring up the wall in an attempt to block off the past.

“We’ll stay here,” he said resolutely. “We have food; we have warmth, and I can see you’ve found a stack of candles.”

“There were always power cuts,” said Athos in a monotone. The housekeeper used to keep boxes of them in the kitchen.”

“So we’re good then?” said Aramis.

Athos looked increasingly dubious.

“It might help being here at night,” said Porthos, in a low voice. “It might trigger something.”

“How can it when I have no knowledge in the first place?” said Athos plaintively.

“I don’t know, my love, but we may as well give it a go, eh?” Porthos tightened his hold. Warmed by the fire, Athos was alive in his arms for the first time all day.

I suppose so,” came the unenthusiastic reply.

~*~

Before it grew dark, Athos showed them around the grounds. The estate was much bigger than Porthos had initially thought. Beyond the lawns, lake and woods lay a huge tract of open land. 

“Most of it was rented out to farmers,” said Athos. “I expect they still use it, to be honest. I’d rather they did. That’s it, other than a wasteland to the east of the woods that was dug up for opencast mining.”

“You should sell the place,” said Aramis.

“To spite my father?” said Athos with a smirk of approval. “I will do one day.”

As the rain began to fall and the light dimmed, they walked back through one of the smaller copses.

“Thomas wanted me to build him Ben Gunn’s lookout in a tree, so he could watch for pirates coming in off the lake,” said Athos. “I said no, and we built a den instead. I keep wondering whether he decided to make it himself, but I’ve combed every inch of the woods.” He looked out at the lake. “If my father was right and some paedophile took him....”

“Stop torturing yourself, my friend,” said Aramis. “It’s not helping.”

“I need to know before I die,” said Athos.

“Time for some food,”said Porthos. “We’re all getting morbid from low blood sugar.” He was frustrated, jet lagged and at an emotional nadir. Why hadn’t Athos come to him with this when he could have done something to help? 

On the return journey, they collected more wood for the fire and, having set up a trail of candles leading from the living room to the bathroom, they fetched blankets and pillows and made camp for the night.

With no phone signal and no internet, they had to rely on a dog eared pack of cards and each other for entertainment. If they’d been at Belle Isle, he and Athos would have spent the night fucking, Aramis’ presence having no bearing on the matter, and just for second Porthos longed for that abandonment, wanting it not out of selfish reasons, but from a desire to take care of Athos.

Gradually, overcome by boredom and exhaustion, the three men succumbed to sleep, Porthos, with a need to keep watch, the last to drop off.

He woke with a start, his vision slowly growing accustomed to the faint flickering of dying firelight. A boy was looking down at him, small and solid in build with blond wavy hair and a pair of hauntingly familiar blue eyes.

He scrubbed at his face, mentally pinching himself to try and come around, but the boy was still there. “Thomas?”

“You have to help him find me,” said the child. “It’s cold here. Everything’s so cold.”

“Porthos. Porthos, wake up, you’re dreaming.”

Porthos opened his eyes to see Athos leaning over him, a look of concern on his face. 

“We shouldn’t be here. It’s too much for you after everything that happened in Louisiana,” he said.

“I saw Thomas,” said Porthos, looking around the room and, just for a second, he caught the sound of laughter.

“You were dreaming,” said Athos.

“He had blond hair and eyes just like yours.”

“And he always drew himself just like that in his pictures,” said Athos, lying next to Porthos and pulling the blanket over them both.

Within seconds he was fast asleep again, but Porthos was still unsettled and he turned to lie on his back, Athos resting against his chest, and stared out through the open double doors. He could feel it as if it were real, a stone tape memory of Athos, scrawny teenage build and lank hair, playing never-ending games of hide and seek with Thomas, racing along the corridors.

“You were a good brother, whatever you think,” he murmured, kissing the top of Athos’ head.

“It’s cold. It’s dark. I’m scared,” cried a little voice from beside him. “Please help me.”


	32. Chapter 32

It was freezing when Porthos woke up. The fire had long since died and both Athos and Aramis were missing. Pulling the blankets around him, he let his mind wander back through the hours of sleep. It may have been a dream, but Thomas was still trying to tell him something.

“Morning,” said Aramis, appearing in the room with a basket full of logs. “We think there’s enough gas left in the cylinders to light the stove so Athos has gone off to the shops to buy coffee. He’s left me in charge of the fire.”

Bleary eyed, Porthos watched him bumble around with kindling and paper rolled into twists. “I thought I saw Thomas last night,” he said.

Aramis stopped what he was doing for a second. “Athos told me, but he said you were asleep.” He struck one of the long length matches. “We all dream, Porthos.”

“It wasn’t as simple as that.” Porthos stopped and thought. He heard the little boy running through the house. He’d heard him cry out for help. “I know what happened last night was real.” Arelia had told him that he had to see and feel and so he must learn to do just that. 

Giving up on the fire for a moment, Aramis turned to look at him. “You haven’t seen Athos this morning. He’s calm and he’s happy. He’s a different person from the man who arrived here yesterday. Maybe just being back here was enough to lay his ghosts to rest.”

“Mate, this is Athos we're talking about,” said Porthos. “He’s been pulling the wool over people’s eyes for years. You know that.”

“Yes I know, but please don’t rock the boat.”

Porthos let out a loud, elongated sigh. “I’m off to the bathroom,” he said. “Do your best to get that fire going for when I get back. I don’t want to have to freeze my ‘nads off in there and then get changed in this temperature.”

“Yes, boss,” said Aramis with a grin. “I’ll try. I’m not making any promises though. Handy, I am not.”

The bathroom was as cold as a meat locker and after a quick piss and a wash, Porthos went for another rummage in Athos’ past. 

At first he picked the mother’s room to go through. Driven mad with grief, as Athos described, Porthos expected to unearth some mementos of her lost son, but there was nothing to be found in here but jewellery and make up. He opened up a small plastic case and it turned out to be a diaphragm which made him shudder in horror, returning it quickly to the detritus of a selfish life.

The father’s belongings turned out to be just as pathetic: a history of his own self-aggrandizement. If he’d cherished Thomas the way Athos had thought he’d done, then surely there would be evidence of it? Some people simply didn’t deserve to have children, thought Porthos. His own absent father was included in that statement, though that man had never made a pretence of any interest in him.

The one person to have photographs of the boy turned out, of course, to be Athos. Hidden away in a drawer, in amongst a pile of school books, Porthos found a battered paper folder containing a dozen pictures of Thomas from when he was taking part in a Christmas play. He was happy and smiling, a silver foil crown keeping the unruly blond hair in place, sweet paper jewels splintering in the flash light.

“I know you, Thomas, and I know you’re here,” he said softly. “I can help.” 

Slipping one of the photographs into his pocket, Porthos left the room. He’d violated Athos’ privacy enough for one day, not that there was much here to violate. 

By now, the living room was a different place. The walls were bathed in a soft orange glow from the fire and it was warm and comforting in here. Porthos stripped out of yesterday’s clothes and was down to his boxers, when he felt a pair of icy cold arms curl around him.

“That’s a lovely sight,” said Athos. “Can I help?” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Porthos’ pants and tugged firmly until they descended. “There you go.”

Porthos was hard immediately. “Shut the door,” he gasped and as Athos did so Porthos stroked himself, enjoying being naked, the heat of the fire searing into his skin.

Athos fell to his knees, hands wrapping around the back of Porthos’ thighs as Porthos directed the head of his cock in between parted lips, the scrape of beard a thrill his past self would never have imagined to be so intoxicating.

Sinfully hot, it was too much and Porthos knew he wouldn’t, indeed _couldn’t_ last. He didn’t want to, needing to make Athos come just as much. More maybe. “So good,” he murmured, teetering on the balls of his bare feet and rocking himself into Athos’ mouth. Picking up the pace, he stroked himself harder, feeling that ripcurl of pleasure sweep through him until he blistered and burst, holding Athos in place, fingers twined into his hair, and coming deep into his throat.

“Let me,” he breathed and there was a quick scuffle of clothes and blanket as he pushed at Athos until he was laid out supine.

“What’s this?” said Athos, body twisting against Porthos who was crouched between his legs. 

Unfastening zipper and button, Porthos stopped what he was doing and looked up to see what Athos was talking about. 

“No,” said Athos in dismay. “You had no right,” he continued, reaching for the photograph which had dislodged itself from the back pocket of Porthos’ jeans. “You’ve been through my things. Why would you do that?”

He skittered away, his back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest as he stared at the picture. “My things,” he repeated.

Porthos grabbed some clothes from his rucksack and quickly got dressed. “Listen to me,” he said, kneeling next to Athos, penitent sure, yet safe in the knowledge that he’d done the right thing. “I had to know whether I was dreaming. I had to know if it was Thomas that I had been seeing.” His hands rested on Athos’ shoulders. “It was him.”

The picture slid to the floor and Athos hid his face. “Don’t.”

“Please, Athos. Thomas needs us to find him.” The door opened and Porthos could feel the weight of Aramis’ displeasure from the across other side of the room, but he wasn’t giving up on this. “He’s somewhere cold and dark and he doesn’t like it.”

Athos hitched in a breath, a sob, and Aramis came over to sit with them. “Porthos, don’t do this. Not off the back of a dream.”

Snatching the picture from where it had fallen, Porthos shoved it into Aramis’ hands. “Look at him. I saw him last night and he needs our help. Why would I be saying this if it wasn’t true?”

“I think you believe it’s true,” said Aramis quietly. “I think you miss having your sight.”

“And so I’m going to torture Athos just to make myself feel better?” said Porthos. “Bollocks, Aramis. I don’t care if the kid came to me when I was awake or asleep, but he did do so and I’m going to help him.”

The accusations didn’t hurt--Aramis had made them with the best of intentions--but Porthos couldn’t begin to understand the man’s logic. Trusting him to take care of Athos, he chased little footsteps through the house, part of an age old game of hide and seek. 

It was cold everywhere in la Fère, but none more so than in Thomas’ room and this gave Porthos hope. Grabbing the kid’s Buzz Lightyear toy from the end of the bed, he held on tight to its plastic gloved hand and tried to reach out. The world he knew was gone and this was very different to the one he was used to: a cobweb of feelings, but no rush of knowledge. 

“Show me what to do, Thomas,” he said. “If I can help you then it’ll help Athos too.” Porthos sniffled, shuddering in a breath, but this unhappiness didn’t belong to him. “Let me help. Show me what happened to you, little man.”

The bed shifted and Porthos reached instinctively for Athos, the toy linking them together.

“He knew you were sad that day. You thought he was angry with you, but he wasn’t. He didn't like it when you were sad.”

Aramis was here now. Porthos could see him through the mist of tears, second hand, first hand, all the same. He opened his heart to the little boy, feeling what he felt, and the fear hurt. There was no smell of forests and earth, but it was dark and deep, all the same. Cold and dank with a mineral smell that made his nostrils burn.

“If he could find the treasure then you could have it and you’d be happy again, but he never found it. He’s so cold and it’s so dark. He’s frightened.”

“Oh, God,” said Athos. “I know where he is.”


	33. Chapter 33

“Athos, wait.” 

Porthos looked up and through an aura of colours he could see Aramis holding on to Athos, restraining him. 

“Wait please.” Aramis looked at Porthos in desperation. “Snap out of this as quickly as possible, my friend. We need you with us.”

Without Athos there as a guide, it was much harder to resurface, but Porthos was learning. The present lay like clouds along the horizon line, a hint of something that was never quite tangible, and he fought hard to get there, the way Athos was fighting to free himself from Aramis.

Letting go of Buzz Lightyear, Porthos pushed himself up to standing and towards Athos, his legs weak and shaky. “Where is he?”

“There’s- Je peux vous montrer.” Athos broke free of them and ran, charging down the corridors and, honed in to Thomas’ feelings, Porthos saw the teenager in front of him rather than the man.

It had been raining heavily for much of the night and the ground was sticky with mud. Athos wasn’t usually this difficult to keep up with, but today he was like the wind, like his old self. A stitch in his side threatening to flare up, Porthos slowed and bent double. “Athos, slow down,” he called, his damaged lungs burning.

“C’est trop tard.” Athos stopped, waiting for them to catch up, then turned and stared at them. “Je ne peux pas le sauver. Je suis stupide.”

“English,” said Porthos. “You know my French is shit.”

“I remember now. I was pissed off that day because I wanted something and they’d said no,” said Athos and his eyes lost focus as he looked back into the past. “It was tickets to a gig in Paris. Thomas must have heard me asking them for the money.”

They were moving again, slower this time and Porthos had had the time to do a translation in his head. Athos had been running to try and save Thomas. 

“Where are we going, chéri?” asked Aramis, but instead of explaining Athos carried on with his story. 

“He was convinced that the mines were full of gold. He went on and on about it all the time. He was sure that the dwarves mined the gold and the pirates stole their treasure. Stupid kid.” 

The scenery around them changed, the woods opening out into wild grassland and beyond that, the wasteland that Athos had spoken about yesterday.

“I told him he was never allowed to come here. He promised me he wouldn’t.”

“But you were sad,” said a small voice coming from out of nowhere. Porthos was glad Athos couldn’t hear it.

In silence they approached the edge of a man made cliff and looked down at the quarry. A wasteland no longer, it had been reclaimed by nature and was now a dazzling blue pool surrounded by wild meadows. It was a vast area to search.

Athos looked at Porthos. “You have to find him. You have to ask him where he is,” he said solemnly. “Please, Porthos.”

“No, no, no,” said Aramis in a panic. “No way. These places are riddled with tunnels. We have no equipment. We didn’t even bring a torch with us, for God’s sake.”

“Then go and get some stuff,” said Porthos. Thomas was tugging at his senses and he made his way towards the edge of the cliff.

Aramis struggled to know what to do for the best. “I’ll go, but please don’t do anything foolish, in the meantime.”

“I’ll look after him,” said Athos.

“I know you will, lovely,” said Aramis, pulling him into a sudden hug. “It’s what you two do best.”

Unable to wait any longer, Porthos started a slow descent of the face. The surface was strewn with hidden shards of rock and it was a nightmare to find any purchase. As the slope grew steeper and more dangerous, he turned and scrambled his way downwards, with Athos a few feet behind, sending a cascade of shingle tumbling over him. “Watch it,” he yelled.

“Sorry,” said Athos, losing his footing and slithering down to the bottom. “I beat you.”

“It wasn’t a race,” growled Porthos.

Athos stared at the mirrored surface of the pool. “He isn’t in there?”

Porthos shook his head. He could smell chemicals, but his lungs weren’t full of liquid. “It’s dark,” he said. “The batteries ran out on his batman torch and he was lost trying to find the way out.”

“He must have been so frightened,” said Athos, his voice tight.

Porthos didn’t tell Athos what Thomas had shown him. What it felt like to be lost for years, waiting for someone to find you. “This way.”

Close to a boulder, there was a wide opening into the quarry face.

“A dragon cave,” muttered Athos and Porthos heard a giggle of laughter from beside him.

At first, the shaft leading from it was big enough for them to move through it without even ducking and the down slope was shallow. This proved to be deceptive though and soon it narrowed, the angle of descent increasing sharply.

“Can you see?” said Athos.

“Just about,” said Porthos. In the darkness ahead, he could make out the glimmering shape of a small child, fading in and out.

“We should go back,” said Athos, his breathing erratic. “Aramis was right. This isn’t safe.”

Porthos reached out and took his hand. “We’ll go slow,” he said. Thomas would make sure they were okay.

“I fell,” said the little boy, appearing directly in front of him a few shuffling steps later. His eyes were wide and blue, too much like Athos’ for comfort. “I fell here.”

Porthos came to a sudden stop, the loose shale sliding downwards then dropping away beneath his feet. The cave floor below was lit with a hint of natural light that was coming in from chinks in the rock, and he could see enough to know that the only way there was to climb down a near vertical face, feeling for hand and footholds.

“Can you make it?” he asked Athos.

“Yes,” said Athos, but he didn’t sound too sure. “I think so.”

“I’ll go first,” said Porthos. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”

Athos cupped Porthos’ face in cold hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Don’t make this a third time,” he said. “I love you too much to lose you again.” He kissed him once more. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Thank me later,” growled Porthos, returning the kiss and deepening it into something more passionate.

Aware of a small boy’s watchful presence, he broke free and, sitting on the edge of the drop, he turned and eased himself over. It wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. The rock was hewn into ridges from thousands of pick heads working at the face and this allowed for an easier descent than Porthos had thought possible.

It took him no time at all to reach the bottom, looking around him as his eyes became accustomed to the low level of light.

“Oh you poor little blighter,” he murmured when he saw the broken body, its skeletal remains just a twisted heap of bones. Thomas had died where he’d fallen. There was no doubt about it. “I’m down and safe, Athos,” he said. “Your turn now. Careful as you go.”

“Okay,” said Athos. “Shit, this is tricky,” he yelped as a clatter of tones hit the ground. “How do you make things look so easy?”

“Because I’m incredibly awesome,” said Porthos, trying ignore the thump of his heart and concentrate on keeping Athos safe. “Just take it slowly and steadily. Remember, I’m here for you.” He would be here for Athos too when he had to come to terms with what he would find down here.

With a certain amount of trepidation, Porthos watched Athos descend, steadying him and hauling him into his arms when he missed the last foothold.

“Safe and sound,” Athos said and Porthos held him tightly until the shock subsided.

“Athos,” he said, after a minute or two had elapsed. “He’s here.”

“I know,” said Athos quietly. “I can feel him.”

“Are you ready to deal with this?” Porthos kissed Athos on the forehead.

“Not really, but it’s long overdue and very necessary.” Turning in the circle of Porthos’ arms, he looked at the small bundle of bones and for a moment it seemed as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. “I’d stupidly convinced myself that I’d see him.”

He knelt in the wet dirt next to the tiny body and hung his head. “I should have come with you. Over and over again I go with you, but however hard I try, I can never make things right.”

Porthos hunkered down next to him. If he could be nothing more than a support to help him through this then he would be there all the way. “He fell,” he said. “It was quick. A sudden lights out.” It could have been a lot worse.

Leaning forward, Athos picked up something that lay next to the bones, partially covered by shale. It was a small plastic sword, discoloured with age and covered in dust, and as he held it in his hand Porthos could feel those barriers coming down. “I did fencing at school,” he explained in an unsteady voice. “He said he needed a sword like mine to fight off the pirates and dragons. I bought him this for his birthday.”

At first Porthos couldn’t understand why his own face was wet. He wiped blindly at his nose and eyes then grabbed Athos and clung on to him knowing that, even if it meant they never left here, he would never let go.

“What do I do now?” said Athos, looking at him, broken hearted. “We’ve found him and I still don’t know what to do?”

“He’s in front of you,” said Porthos. The little boy was standing next to them in his waxed jacket and Wellington boots, the sword strapped around his waist. He wasn’t cold and he wasn’t frightened. Instead he was smiling, his new front teeth a little too big for the rest of his mouth. “Do you see him?”

Athos lifted his head and looked around him. “No,” he said. “Are you sure he’s here?”

Thomas sat next to Athos, reaching out to hold his hand and Athos shuddered with relief and leaned in towards him.

“You can let me go now,” said Thomas. “I love you, Ath.”

When the bridge opened, Porthos was frightened. The last time this had happened it had been for him, and it was hard to put aside the pull of its force.

“Love you too, runt,” said Athos and then the aura of colours was gone and they were left in darkness.

Porthos was freezing cold and completely exhausted. They’d seen enough death. It was time to start living. “You okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Athos.

“Me either,” agreed Porthos.

“He would have been twenty five now,” said Athos. “I wonder what he would have been doing?”

“Killing dragons and pirates probably,” said Porthos, and his hand rested over Athos’, both of them connected by a small plastic sword.


	34. Chapter 34

Lost somewhere in the universe, with Athos jammed up next to him, Porthos struggled to make sense of the indistinct words coming from the far side of the cavernous space that lay ahead of them.

“Porthos! Athos! If you don’t answer me soon I’ll find you and I’ll beat the crap out of you with my plaster cast.”

“We forgot about Aramis,” said Porthos, pulling a face. “We’re fine, mate,” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Can you hear me?”

“Just about, you fucking bastard,” came the reply. “Keep shouting.”

“Tell him he’s a narcissistic man slut,” said Athos. “That’ll get him annoyed enough to find us.”

“Tell him yourself,” said Porthos, wrapping an arm around Athos and kissing him firmly on the mouth. “Is that snot or tears I can taste?”

“Probably both,” said Athos, wiping his face. “I love you. Never forget that. Please.”

“I love you too.” Porthos pushed in closer. There was something new on Athos’ mind and the only way to get him talking was by being physical with him. He loved the comfort of touch. It was understandable seeing as he’d been starved of it when young.

“For fuck’s sake, guys, where are you?” yelled Aramis.

“Right here,” shouted Porthos. The beam of light was an alert to show when Aramis was close by and Porthos called to him again. “You’re near us now, mate. To your right a bit.”

“Thank, Christ,” said Aramis when he swung the torch onto them. “I thought I was left on my own.”

“Never happen.” Strangely, it was Athos who said this rather than Porthos.

Aramis, in the meantime, had picked out the tiny body and was crouched down next to it. “So, this is young Thomas,” he said, turning to inspect Athos for damage. “How are you bearing up, chéri?”

“Okay, I think,” said Athos. “It’s… I’m not sure.”

“Early days,” said Aramis. He looked sorrowfully at Porthos. “I’m sorry for ever doubting you, my friend.”

“You had every reason to,” said Porthos. “I’d have doubted myself if it wasn’t for Arelia.” He stood up with a groan, his whole body aching from the cold that had seeped into it. Holding a hand out to Athos, he helped him to his feet, smiling at the similar grumble of pain. “We’re getting too old for this, love.”

“I brought a blanket,” said Aramis. “In case you found him.” He unpacked it from his rucksack, handing it over, and the two men watched as Athos knelt down and wrapped Thomas’ body in its temporary shroud, placing the sword carefully in with him.

“Is there a climb to get out of here the way you came in?” asked Porthos.

Aramis shook his head. “Just a steep slope.”

As they made their way back to the surface, Porthos wished, with all his heart, that the little boy had found this way into the cave instead. Searching, led them to a longer path back up to the woods, which meant that Athos didn’t have to relinquish hold of his brother’s body, but it was still a laborious climb and with every foot of ascent, the mood dulled.

The procession back to the house was a sombre one, no one could have expected anything else, but Porthos wished he could feel a weight lifting. Instead, Athos seemed more enmeshed in his thoughts than ever.

“If only I’d not been so selfish that day,” he intoned.

“You weren’t selfish, Athos,” said Porthos. “Thomas was disobedient. He went somewhere he was not allowed to go.”

“Because of me.”

Back at la Fère, Athos laid Thomas to rest on the long dining table and sat in a chair next to him, head in his hands as if he were praying.

For a while, Porthos and Aramis left him in peace, but it was too quiet in there for too long and they eventually joined him, bringing with them coffee and the pastries Athos had bought at the boulangerie in the village that morning. To Porthos, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

“You should arrange a funeral,” said Aramis. “It only needs to be something very quiet. I can visit the priest for you, if you like.”

“He’s not having a service,” said Athos. “He doesn’t need one.”

“But, Athos,” said Aramis and, with eyebrows raised, Porthos warned him silently to back down from this.

“He’s not going in the family crypt,” said Athos. “I want him to be buried…” He looked around him and his voice tightened with misery. “I don’t know. There’s nowhere in this bloody place he was happy.”

Porthos didn’t believe that for a second. He’d heard echoes of the little boy’s laughter as he played in the gloomy mausoleum of a house. “Then we bring him home,” he said. “There’s one of those natural burial grounds not far from us.”

Athos looked up for a moment, but then hope faded and his face fell. “I’ll have to see my mother first. She should be told and I must be the one to do it.”

“We can do that before we leave,” said Porthos.

“ _I_ have to do it,” snapped Athos and he got up abruptly, chair skidding back across the floorboards as he left the room.

“Leave him alone for a while,” suggested Aramis. “This can’t be easy for him.” He patted Porthos on the hand. “He doesn’t mean to be rude.”

“I know,” said Porthos. “But that’s the worst thing of all. He doesn’t mean to be rude and he doesn’t mean to push me away, but he does it anyway. It comes naturally to him.”

“When he’s nice, he’s very very nice.” Aramis smiled hopefully.

“Yeah,” said Porthos gloomily. “And when he’s bad, he’s horrid.”

~*~

A stroll to the village whiled away part of the afternoon. As in most rural parts of France, the Tabac was the source of all news as well as providing most of the shopping and social needs of la Fère.

With a bar stool to sit on and a drink in his hand, Aramis was in his element, chattering nineteen to the dozen with the locals. Porthos swallowed his beer and had a nose around, looking at the magazines and watching out of the corner of his eye as his best mate pinched strong French cigarettes off his new friends and made himself at home.

Having had enough of being cooped up, Porthos went for a wander through the village, dodging the stray chickens and ducks and stopping on his travels to stare up at the grim exterior of the church. The stone tape echoed again as he pictured a teenage Athos watching his father’s coffin being entombed in the crypt.

About to return to the Tabac and chivvy Aramis along, Porthos was surprised by a hand clasping at his shoulder.

“Is it time to go back and find our elusive friend?” said Aramis.

“I think so.” Porthos nodded. “He’s had a couple of hours sulking time. That should do for today.”

“Mme Gauthier told me that he was always a moody boy.”

“Who?”

“She runs the shop.” Aramis waved a carrier bag at Porthos. “She’s given us some home cooked food to heat up for dinner.”

Porthos wondered what it must be like to be able to charm everyone the way Aramis did. He’d have preferred that gift to his any day. “Result, mate. I could do with some proper nosh. Let’s hope the gas supply lasts long enough to warm it up in the oven.”

Arriving at the derelict entrance to the chateau, both men looked at each other and sighed, steeling themselves to go back inside.

“Perhaps we should have stayed at the pensionne,” said Aramis, when the gates groaned in unwelcoming fashion. Pushing them closed, they walked down the overgrown driveway.

“We’ve done what we came here to do,” said Porthos. “I only hope his lordship’s remembered to be grateful.”

Athos _had_ remembered something, though gratitude didn’t play a part in it. They found him in a pathetic state, slumped on a settee staring at the portraits that looked down at him from the panelled walls, having raided the wine cellar and swallowed at least three bottles in the time they were gone.

“Miserable bastards, the lot of them.” He looked blearily up at Porthos and Aramis. “Sorry, gentlemen. I appear to have started without you,” he said as he finished the contents of a bottle and dropped it on the floor.

“Why?” said Aramis, shaking his head in despair. “We’ve been gone two hours at the most.”

“I know why,” said Porthos and he turned to look at Athos. “You chose to do this. You watched us go out and you headed straight for the cellar, intending to get drunk as quickly as possible.”

“So what if I did.” Athos shrugged and got unsteadily to his feet, reaching for another bottle from the table and attacking it with the corkscrew. “Fucking thing,” he said throwing it and the bottle at the nearest painting. The bottle smashed in spectacular style and rivulets of wine spilled down the wall.

He was about to grab another, but Porthos was quicker, stopping him and hauling him angrily into his arms. “Enough,” he said. “If you have any more you’ll only be doing it to make me suffer. Is that what you want?”

“It’s not about making you suffer,” slurred Athos, the alcohol catching up with his senses.

“Then why be so self destructive?” asked Porthos. “Having a drink is a laugh, but this? This is sad.”

“I am sad,” said Athos. “I’m sad and I hurt and I thought it would go away.” He rested his head against Porthos’ shoulder. “‘M such a fuck up.”

“No, you’re not,” said Porthos. “You’re drunk and you’re maudlin, but you’re not a fuck up.”

“Yeah, I am,” said Athos.

~*~

Upset, but far less angry than he expected he’d be, Porthos nursed Athos through his drunkenness and out the other side, to a world of of misery and paranoia.

“I’m a stupid prick,” he said, lolling in Porthos’ arms as they lay together on one of the beds.

“You are,” said Porthos. He was exhausted from playing guard dog all night, terrified that Athos would raid the wine cellar again and drink himself to death this time. “It’d be really cool if you’d stop doing it.”

Athos managed an apologetic quirk of the lips. “When you were Isaac and I was Olivier, being together was so simple,” he said. “I know it was only for a short time, but did you not feel that too? Despite all those barriers in their way, they loved each other and got on with life.”

“It was a spell,” said Porthos matter-of-factly. “We weren’t us, but we weren’t them either.”

“It was freedom,” said Athos. “The only time I’ve ever felt free in my life.”

“Because it wasn’t you,” said Porthos, speaking slowly as if he were talking to a child. “You weren’t carrying your brother’s ghost around on your back.” He leaned in closer to kiss Athos on the cheek. “Thomas has gone, sweetheart. You helped him cross over. Now you have to let go of him yourself.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” confessed Athos and then he looked up at Porthos with an unblinking gaze. “I need to know whether there’s something wrong with me. Whether I’m like my mother.”

“Shut up,” said Porthos. His stomach was churning with distress. “Enough of this crap.”

“We’ve been totally reliant on each other for years,” Athos continued on regardless. “But you don’t need me any longer, and I need to learn how to stop needing you. Porthos, if I don’t do something about this you’re going to end up hating me more than you do right now.”

“I don’t hate you,” said Porthos. “I could never hate you.”

“But you will,” said Athos with too much certainty. 

As the panic built inside, words tumbled out of Porthos’ lips. “You’re upset. We’ve been away for too long. We’ve had a shit time over the last couple of weeks and now you have to come to terms with finding Thomas. We’ll go home. Everything will be fine when we’re at home.” He pulled away a little, just enough to try and read Athos and the truth he uncovered was as cold and as cruel as as la Fère. Once he understood it, everything in his world shattered into tiny fragments. “No,” he moaned. “No. This has nothing to do with your brother.” He blinked away tears. “This is why you asked Aramis to be here. You wanted him to take care of me after we broke up. You’re a cruel bastard, Athos.”

~*~

After two days of discussion, tears and heartbreak, Porthos conceded defeat. Athos didn’t want him in his life.

“Don’t do this, chéri,” said Aramis, his hands clamped tightly around Athos’ shoulders. “Come home with us.”

“I can’t,” Athos said simply, kissing Aramis in triplicate. “Please take care of each other.”

His goodbye from Porthos was much longer and far more painful. “Don’t ever think I don’t love you,” he said in an undertone. “I could never love anyone more than I love you. Please try to understand why I have to do this. Try not to hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” said Porthos and he kissed him slowly and carefully on the mouth, committing every nuance of it to memory.

“Au revoir,” said Athos, watching as they got into the taxi. Unguarded and emotional, the tears rolled down his face and Porthos wished he’d had a chance to know the man better.


	35. Chapter 35

Three years had crawled by since la Fère, although it seemed more like a century to Porthos. Lonely, though he rarely bothered anyone with his feelings, he’d stayed on at the university, working for the psychology department whilst studying for his PhD. It was slow going, his heart wasn’t in it, and despite a wealth of experience, he was unwilling to talk about any of it to further his chance of success.

About a year after they split up, he was staring out of the lab window, pretending to be marking some essays, when his heart stuttered and cracked sharply in his chest. The man walking across the quadrangle was thinner and older than he should have been. His hair was too long and he had an unkempt beard, but he carried himself like Athos. Even when drunk, the man had a slight swagger to his gait that was unmistakable. Porthos charged out of the building, frightening the poor undergrads, who were swept aside in his path, but by the time he’d reached the courtyard there was no one there. It took him months to stop waiting for the sound of keys in the lock.

Their house had become a shrine. Athos’ belongings filled the cupboards and shelves. His clothes were in the wardrobe. His shoes were on the rack. The only thing missing was the man himself. Porthos had long since accepted that he’d never get over him. He’d tried dating, both men and women, but no one ever fitted him the way Athos had done, and he would never bring anyone into their home. Sex was sex: a release, but never a comfort.

Aramis, now happily married with a baby on the way, had tried his hardest to find someone for Porthos, but had eventually reached the same conclusion as his best friend. The truth was that Porthos had found his soul mate, lost him and there was no going back. He wasn’t a grieving widower, but most days it felt like it.

It was late, well past the conventional time for visitors, when someone rang the bell. Throwing on a dressing gown, Porthos answered the door, his heart in his mouth, to find Aramis standing on the step.

“I’m sorry about the time, Porthos, but I wanted to tell you in person,” he said, and Porthos felt sick, because this could only mean something awful had happened.

“Is everything okay with Anne?” he asked, a bag of nerves.

“Yes, she’s fine,” said Aramis, muttering to himself about the perils of stupid ideas. “Actually, this concerns Athos.”

Porthos’ world came to a grinding halt. Oh, God, no, please. “What’s happened?” he muttered, his chest constricting tight, tighter until it was about to seize.

“No. No, Porthos, he’s fine too,” said Aramis, pulling him into an apologetic hug. “I should have just phoned. This was so foolish of me. I’m sorry.”

“What about Athos?” gulped Porthos, taking deep breaths in between the words. “Please tell me.”

“He phoned me. He wanted to know how you were.” Aramis paused. “He’s in town and he’d like to see you. He said he’ll be at your café tomorrow at the usual time, if you want to meet up with him.”

“Oh,” said Porthos, absolutely lost for words. It had been a habit of theirs to have Sunday breakfast at the Wren, but since they’d split up he hadn’t been back once.

“Porthos?” said Aramis. 

“Thanks, mate.” Porthos was in a state of confusion.

“You _will_ go?” said Aramis. “You absolutely have to go.”

“How did he sound?” asked Porthos anxiously.

“Like Athos. Amused and slightly irritated by life.”

Porthos’ eyes stung. He was going to cry right here on the doorstep. “I’ve missed him so much.”

“I know you have, lovely,” said Aramis, hauling him into his arms. “And that’s why you’re going to see him tomorrow. For closure, if nothing else.”

By the time Aramis had gone home it was past midnight and Porthos went back to bed, tossing, turning, scared and excited. Wishing he had new clothes. Wishing that he’d had his haircut. Hoping there was something left between them. Was it even possible?

He hardly slept a wink, just about managing to drop off when his radio started playing. He never bothered to turn the alarm off nowadays. Saturdays, he’d get up to do washing and grocery shopping. Sundays were all about housework and ironing. He was old before his time, just like Athos had once been.

After a quick shower, he stared at the face in the mirror as he shaved and wondered how much he’d changed in three years. Would Athos still fancy him? Would he fancy Athos? Would they still be in love?

Just in case the attraction was there, he changed the bed sheets and then, furious with himself, was about to change them back when he realised how pathetic he was being. 

With everything in the house now polished to perfection, including the food in the fridge, he sat staring at the clock, watching the minutes tick by. Finally, unable to twiddle his thumbs any longer, he set off an hour early.

It was a nice day for a walk by the river. The grass was heavy with dew, soaking into the hem of his jeans and he stopped at the edge of the bank, taking a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket and feeding the ducks handfuls of stale bread.

“Hello, stranger,” said a voice from behind him, warm and cool, all at the same time, but with a hint of tension, enough to show that he was as rattled as Porthos. “I see you had the same idea as me.”

When Porthos turned, Athos immediately took a step forward as if he were about to embrace him and then stopped in his tracks, shuffling his feet and looking at the ground.

“Athos,” growled Porthos, easing up. “You can come closer. I don’t bite.”

“Don’t you? That’s a shame.” 

And there it was. That upward tug of the lips. That amused quirk of eyebrow that Porthos had missed so much. He held out his arms, unashamed of how much he needed a hug.

Athos slotted naturally into him and they held each other for a long time, the ducks quacking angrily in the water, waiting impatiently for more snacks.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” said Athos as he helped Porthos feed them the remains of the loaf.

“Really?” said Porthos in a gruff voice as they walked the long way around to their café. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re not mine any longer,” said Athos.

“I’ve never been anyone else’s.” It was nothing but the truth.

Athos’ hand brushed against his and they instinctively interlocked. It was a small gesture, tiny in the grand scheme of things, but they had spent so many years in close contact, that, to Porthos, it was hope written in smoky red letters across the sky.

“So, what have you been doing with yourself then?” said Athos.

“I’ve been busy making ‘fuck all’ into an artform,” laughed Porthos. “Incredibly, the university still see fit to pay me.”

“That’s because you’re lovely to all the little undergrads.” Athos grinned at him, _really_ grinned, and Porthos squeezed his hand in delight.

“What about you?” he asked. 

“Me?” Athos shrugged. “It’s been a journey.”

“Tell me,” said Porthos. “I want to know everything about you.”

Athos smiled. “And I want you to know. I see our table is free. You go grab it and I’ll order.”

Porthos hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived at the Wren. Come rain or shine, winter or the blazing heat of summer, they always sat in the most sheltered spot on the deck, overlooking the river. Leaning back in his chair, Porthos allowed his heart to fill with happiness, even if it did turn out to be just one day’s worth.

“So?” he said when Athos returned. “What did you do after Aramis and I left?”

“I drank a lot of wine.” Athos blushed. “Then I drank a lot more.”

“I get it,” said Porthos in a stern voice.

“Then eventually I sobered up and went to see my mother.”

The waiter arrived carrying a tray loaded with coffee, pastries, toasted sandwiches, bacon rolls, the works.

“Did you ask for everything on the menu?” said Porthos.

“It’s my way of keeping you here for as long as possible,” laughed Athos.

His smile alone would do that, thought Porthos. Although food was never a bad thing, he decided, tucking in to a butty whilst Athos poured the coffee. “Go on,” he said. “How’s your mother?”

“As insane as ever,” said Athos. “I don’t think she had a clue who I was. On the plus side, she didn’t try and gouge my eyes out this time. I told her about Thomas and she cried. I don’t know if she understood, but something got through.”

“That’s good,” said Porthos, reaching out automatically to still Athos’ hand as he tore bread into tiny lumps of dough.

“I think so.” Athos ate a piece of the croissant, instead of vandalising it. “Aramis will be pleased to know that I decided to give Thomas a funeral and have him placed in the family crypt. It seemed the right thing to do, even if it wouldn’t be my own choice.”

Porthos nodded. “Projection’s never a good thing.”

“Anyone would think we were psychologists.” Athos raised an eyebrow and Porthos chuckled. “Have I talked enough yet?”

“You’ve hardly started, love.” Porthos looked at him over the top of his coffee cup. “What about _you_?”

Athos sighed. “I was in hospital for a while. My thoughts didn’t feel like my own and I wanted to deal with that as well as my alcoholism.”

Porthos was shattered that Athos had chosen to cope with this alone. “I would have been there for you,” he said fervently.

“I know you would. You always have been, but I needed to have my props removed to see how far I fell.”

“How far was that?” asked Porthos.

“I surprised myself,” said Athos, with a genuine smile. “I stopped a long way before rock bottom.”

“You’re strong,” said Porthos. “Maybe now you’ll believe it.”

“Perhaps. A little.” Athos looked at him. “Now neither of us have any reason to doubt ourselves.”

Porthos grinned. “You’re too good at that.” It was true. He _had_ been foundering and Athos could always read him like a book. “What are you doing now?”

“You’ll probably laugh,” said Athos with a half smile. “I’ve put my degree to use at last and I counsel people with alcohol related problems.”

“I think that’s brilliant,” said Porthos and he welled up with pride. “You were always great at helping me.” He paused. “How long are you here for?”

Athos smiled again. “I have no solid plans. I’ve sold up in France and... well... I was hoping to spend some time here in Warwick. If that’s okay with you.”

Thinking of the clean sheets on their bed, Porthos leaned in and kissed Athos softly on the mouth. “There’s nothing I would like more.”

The kiss was full of love and highly charged with electricity. “I-” said Athos, pulling back from it with a start. “Actually, I’d like to date you, Porthos. Will you go out with me?”

Porthos laughed out loud, but then he saw the look on Athos’ face and knew that the man was serious. “Yeah, why not,” he said. “But how about I take you back to our bed first?” It was worth a shot.

Athos smirked and shook his head. “I think we need to work on the talking part of our relationship. As I recall, we’ve never had any problems with the sex.”

“No problems at all,” said Porthos, wrapping a hand around the back of Athos’ neck and pulling him in for another kiss.

“Then it’s agreed. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven,” said Athos, his forehead pressed against Porthos’.

~*~

Porthos took his new clothes out of the bag and eyed them speculatively. “Do you think these are too casual?” he said, glaring at the jeans and crimson button down shirt that had looked so cool in the shop. “Maybe I should wear a suit.”

“Porthos, Porthos, Porthos.” Clamping his hands down on both shoulders, Aramis laughed at him openly. “It’s Athos. You’ve known him for nearly twenty years. You were sleeping with him for eight of those. Calm down.”

“But he’s-”

“He’s the love of your life, so go grab him and hold on to him and keep on doing that, for all our sakes.”

“I’m being a dick, aren’t I?”

“You’re being adorable.” Aramis clapped him on the back and ushered him to the door. “But do it at home where we don’t have to listen to you.”

“Agreed,” shouted d’Artagnan. “And tell him to come and visit us. I haven’t had a good argument in years.”

Being instructed to go home was the best piece of advice ever. Once safely tucked away inside the cottage, Porthos was able to relax. Here he was surrounded by Athos. Everywhere he looked, there were photos of him, piles of his books, games, movies, only now he had the bonus of seeing him in the flesh in just a couple of hours.

Showered and ready far too early, he fired up the PlayStation and was busy playing Assassin’s Creed when the doorbell rang.

“You could have used your keys,” he said, letting Athos in.

“That would have been a bit presumptuous for a first date.” Athos kissed him hello. “I haven’t booked anywhere. I didn’t know what you wanted to do.”

“How about you make us a coffee while I finish this mission,” said Porthos. “You know where everything is.”

They stayed in all evening playing games and chatting and when Athos stood up to leave, Porthos waylaid him at the bottom of the stairs. “You haven’t seen what I’ve done with the bedroom yet?”

“Is it that exciting?”

Porthos pushed him against the wall and kissed him thoroughly, with every intention of going further. “It’ll be an eye-opener up there, I promise.”

“That sounds so good.” Athos bit softly at his neck. “I can’t wait.”

Porthos canted his hips, his hard cock pressing into Athos’ side. “Then please let’s not.”

“It’s a shame we didn’t actually go on our date,” smirked Athos, wriggling free. “We’ll try harder tomorrow.”

“You shit,” laughed Porthos. “You’re serious.” Hooking Athos in for a kiss goodbye, he reached down and palmed that stiff cock. “You do still want me then?”

“I always want you, you know that,” breathed Athos. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

~*~

Sushi, thought Porthos in horror, looking at tables strewn with rice, seaweed and unappealing fish parts. Still, he supposed he could put up with it for one night. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a mischievous grin appear on Athos’ face.

“I hate sushi,” he growled. 

“Oh, do you?” said Athos innocently. “Sorry, I thought everyone liked it.”

“You _know_ I hate sushi,” said Porthos. “You’re paying me back for mucking up our first date.”

“I wouldn’t say you mucked it up.” Athos smiled at him. “I enjoyed everything about it. Especially the kissing goodnight part.” He grinned again. “I also enjoyed thinking about it afterwards when I was in bed on my own.”

“Tease,” said Porthos and if they weren't in such a public place he would have taught Athos a lesson for winding him up.

They ended up at the Italian restaurant next door, nose to nose at an intimate table for two. Talking happened naturally, as did the sporadic bursts of kissing, and afterwards, when the meal was over and they were walking back to the car, Porthos realised that this was the first time he’d been out for the evening and not tuned in once to see which dead people were lurking on the periphery.

“I’m a real person,” he murmured.

“I think we both are,” said Athos, understanding him as always.

~*~

“Bowling?” said Porthos. “You told me to wear a suit.”

“Did I?” said Athos. “Well, you do look stunning in it.”

”Why bowling?” Porthos still couldn’t believe it. 

“Because I’ve never been before,” said Athos.

“I can tell.” Porthos watched as the man managed to miss all but one pin. “Do you want to use that ramp thing they have for the kiddies?”

“No. I’ll get the hang of it,” said Athos, grinning at him. “It’s fun.”

And just like that the lights came on, a million marquee bulbs spelling out the letters. “We have been having fun, haven’t we?” Porthos said, catching hold of Athos and pulling him in close. “We’ve never done that before.”

“Not that I can remember.” 

The kiss was inevitable. It, perhaps, wasn’t the place for something of such intensity, but then again Porthos had never felt so emotionally attached to a bowling alley before.

They played a few more games, with Athos getting progressively worse as the time went on. His score was so abysmal that they decided to call it quits, reclaiming their shoes and going across the road for a burger.

“Why can’t you bowl?” laughed Porthos. “Everyone can bowl.”

“Maybe I was distracted by your arse in those suit trousers,” smirked Athos.

“I like that excuse,” said Porthos. “God, I am so happy,” he continued, hooking both hands behind his neck and stretching with contentment until the back of the chair creaked in panic. “Are you happy?”

“Extraordinarily so,” said Athos, as he stared at the dessert section of the menu. “Happy but not needy.”

“I’m needy,” said Porthos in a gruff voice. God only knows when a scruffy man looking at pictures of sundaes became such a turn on for him.

“You’re horny,” said Athos. “It’s different. The good kind of different. Are we having ice cream?”

“Only if I can lick it off your cock.” Porthos grinned, but then he turned serious. “Are you coming home tonight, love?” The question hung in the air. “Say yes.”

“ _If_ I say yes.”

Porthos’ heart missed a fraction of a beat. 

“You do realise it’s just for sex,” said Athos, his eyes twinkling. “And not because I like you, or anything.”

~*~

Now that it was actually happening Porthos began to panic, and his hands were shaking as he unlocked the front door.

“Why am I so nervous? It’s not as if we haven’t done it before.” 

It wasn’t him who’d said these words and instantly Porthos relaxed. Flicking the light switch on, he turned and caught Athos unawares, pushing him up against the wall in the exact same place they’d kissed a few days ago. “I’d say something reassuring, only I’m just as terrified. How about a drink to relax us?” He could have kicked himself. “A cup of tea,” he clarified.

“It’s okay,” smiled Athos. “I won’t fall to pieces just because you mentioned booze.” He paused. “Though I’d kill for a stiff whiskey.”

“How about a stiff something else?” said Porthos, shoving himself against Athos and sucking at his throat. 

“Shall we move this upstairs?” said Athos.

Porthos nodded, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. Athos was rumpled and debauched. His lips were wet from kisses, his neck stained red from bites, and Porthos wanted him, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. “Go on,” he said, grabbing a handful of shirt, pulling Athos closer and then smacking him on the arse. “Get up there.”

It turned into a scrimmage as they grinned at each and then made a sudden charge for the bedroom.

“I like what you’ve done in here,” said Athos, looking around at a room that was exactly the same as when he’d left it.

“It’s a hundred percent improved tonight,” said Porthos, pushing Athos back on the duvet and rucking up his t-shirt in order to wash him with kisses as he slowly, lovingly, stripped him naked.

He was about to take off his jacket when Athos shook his head. “Keep the suit on for a while, please,” he said in a low voice, grabbing Porthos by the tie and yanking him closer until their mouths almost touched.

“Like it that much, do you?” growled Porthos, feeling Athos twitch against his side.

Athos let out this husky rumble of delight and reached down to unfasten Porthos’ trousers, slipping a hand inside to hook Porthos’ cock out of his underpants and then tease it through the opening of the unzipped fly. “God, you’re so gorgeous,” he muttered.

Porthos knelt over him, dipping down to worry at his throat and then lap at his nipples. “I need to fuck you like this,” he said, sucking a trail of bruises over Athos’ skin. “I need to wet you up and finger you open and then fuck you really hard all bloody night.”

Athos arched up from the bed clawing at he duvet. He gazed up at Porthos through eyes that were half lidded with need. “Just do it. Do it now.”

Porthos covered him, cock resting against cock, and he licked into Athos’ mouth, relearning every inch of him, every part he might possibly have missed during this amazing week. The kiss was so good, perfect perhaps, and with Athos wrapped naked around him, fingertips sliding over him, urging him on, Porthos was close to heaven. One buck of the hips was all it took and they were both _in_ heaven, coming hot over each other in spasms of pleasure.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” said Athos, staring down at the mess, his cheeks crimson with embarrassment.

“It _was_ over a bit quicker than I was planning,” laughed Porthos. “I think we’ve done enough work on our talking. Time to move on to the sex part.”

“We’ll get better,” said Athos with a quirk of the lips, moulding himself into Porthos’ side and messing up his suit a little more. “We just need to practice.”

“I like the sound of that.” Porthos wrapped an arm around him and held on tight, just as Aramis had suggested. The sex may have ended prematurely, but it was a sign of how much they needed each other. “Are you home now?” he murmured, after they’d been lying together in a blissful silence for a minute or two. It was a terrifying question to ask, but he had to know. He’d come so close to giving up hope that this all seemed slightly surreal. “Are you really home?”

“If you’ll have me.” Athos leaned up on an elbow. “But I do come with a lot of baggage.”

“We’ll collect that from the hotel in the morning,” grinned Porthos, sealing the deal with a kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read this story and supported me along the way. ::mass hug:: You're the best.
> 
> Much love and many kisses.


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